The Mummy's Shadow
by L-Fire
Summary: What if all that has transpired is more than what it seems? Ancient prophecies, and a long trip through time, to ancient Egypt and to events surrounding and beyond The Mummy & TMR.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer:  
  
Dear Reader,  
Sadly, I do not own any of the characters in this story except the ones you've never heard of. Which is quite unfortunate really, as if I owned the ones you had heard of, I would probably be quite wealthy and could sit on some beach all day writing this kind of thing. Which, come to think of it, from your perspective is probably something of a relief.   
  
Undoubtedly some small liberty taking with history, ancient mythology, the bible (yes I know some people would regard that as the same thing), and with a take on some characters history that may clash a little with the novels but not (I hope) with the movies. Apologies to those any of that might annoy. But then this is only a story.   
  
________________________________  
  
THE MUMMY'S SHADOW  
  
Prologue  
  
In his pain,, he longed for oblivion. That his soul might be eaten up and destroyed, never to return to the world of man, as those that failed the test of life were warned it would be. Twice he had experienced life and twice he had been judged to have failed it, and yet still his soul existed.   
  
How he prayed for it to be finished.   
  
Prayed that he would no longer have to live in his own personal hell, experiencing and re-experiencing the moment in his life, when his entire world crumbled around him, when his heart broke, and his entire being was filled with disbelief and despair. The moment when he finally realised that everything he had done, all that he had given up, all the betrayal, the physical pain, and all the deaths, had all been for nothing.   
  
What he experienced now, was far worse in it's way than the curse he had endured for almost 3,000 years. More than fire and brimstone, far more than physical torment, living in this one moment of despair and hopelessness unable to experience anything else was the worst hell a man could face. For without hope there is nothing.   
  
It was enough to drive a man insane with grief and pain. But that relief was denied him, all relief was denied him, in revenge for his betrayal both of man and Gods. So he prayed to the Gods for that relief, even as he screamed his torment.   
  
But the Gods had long ago deserted him.   
  
Just as he had deserted Osiris, whose High Priest he had been. Deserted him for unquenchable love of a woman forbidden to him, a woman who had loved him with a similar unquenchable fire.   
  
Or so he had thought.   
  
But the truth of it had been different. The truth was the moment he was living now, and would live forever, as long as Ma'at endured and kept the cosmic balance. Until then he would live this moment, the moment when, after 3,000 years of struggle to finally be reunited with her and take vengeance on the world that kept them apart, she had turned from him, her eyes filled with fear, unwilling to risk herself to help save the lover who had risked all for her. And she had run. In that very moment his entire world collapsed in on itself, just as the ancient temple they were in was doing.   
  
Anck-sa-namun!   
  
He screamed her name for the countless time. Pleading, in disbelief, watching her go, watching her leave him, the hurt, the despair, piercing his soul once again, with all the dizzying freshness of new experience.   
  
She had been fickle. All this time.   
  
As High Priest he had had power and influence, the greatest of all save Pharaoh and his eldest son. A living God, in his way. Returned from his grave he was a God, with powers that manipulated the very earth itself to inflict death and suffering on those that dwelt upon it. And she had loved him.   
  
But, powers stripped by an ancient trap of Anubis, he was a mortal man, and she was frightened. He thought at first it was fear for him, for the danger that he strode into without his powers unafraid, willing to risk all to gain the world for them. For her. But in truth, it was fear for herself, for what might become of her if he did not return. Newly restored to this world her fear was stronger than her love for him.   
  
And in his defeat, revealed as normal mortal man brought low, she had run. Run from him even as his pleas for her aid rang in her ears.   
  
Unlike the other. The one who had restored him once at Hamanaptra, and who had there, later, sent him back to his curse. The one he thought they had killed but who had herself been restored to life. She did not run from the man who was hers when he too was in mortal jeopardy.   
  
No. Even with his limited knowledge of the modern language, he knew that the man who fought him at every hands turn, and who hung with him now over the crevasse where they had both fallen, had cried out to his wife to leave him. No, he had cried.   
  
But with her man's words begging her to stay back, and amidst the falling temple, she had risked her newly restored life once more, her love greater than her fear, and had managed to pull him to the safety of her embrace.   
  
In seeing them, his nemeses, their love and strength together shining as he thought only his and Anck-sa-namun's could, and with the memory of the retreating back of his lovers form, he had known the death of his spirit. And had gladly fallen into the pit, seeking his oblivion.   
  
But had not found it.   
  
Instead, fresh torments had been found for him, by Osiris, who he had betrayed and who ruled the underworld. And with no one left to restore him, and even in his pain, no wish to be restored to a world without her, he would dwell here in agony for ever.   
  
There was no anger, no desire for revenge. Just the moment of truth.   
  
For what might have been the millionth time, or could've been the first. He screamed his loss once more, unheeding, unaware, of all the other similar screams of the lost souls around him, for hell was endured alone. It would begin again, afresh, instantaneously, playing over and over again, all the emotions fresh, the wounds new, with no respite, no relief.   
  
But suddenly, unexpectedly, there was nothing.   
  
No vision of a betraying lover, no pain, no despair, no heartbreak.   
  
Nothing but the sound of other souls torments, as his own suddenly ended.   
  
Whether his consciousness perceived himself to be whole, or whether his body had been held intact after he had thrown himself into the outstretched hands of the denizens of hell, he knew not, but he looked around, and saw, or imagined he saw, the other souls with whom he shared this vast unending horror.   
  
Their multitude of screams assaulted his ears like a weapon, and he clamped his hands, or envisioned himself in the action of doing so, over his ears. Strangely restored to himself, such a sound threatened to truly drive him insane. But just as suddenly as he had been restored to this state of awareness, the sound faded, through no aid of his hands, real or not. And everything went black.   
  
For a fleeting moment, freed from it's shackles, there was hope. A hope that the oblivion he had sought had been granted to him. But in realising that thought, he knew that it had not.   
  
In as much as he could feel, it felt like he was in a vast black underground cavern, and all around him a gentle wind blew, sighing along the walls he could not see, as he strained what senses he had to hear, he could almost make out words, whispering to him.   
  
Then it came to him. Shooting through him like frigid blast of air.  
  
"Imhotep." The voice echoed, full of ancient raging fury, yet quiet as a murmur.   
  
"Lord." His own remembered voice replied, full of fear and true servility. There was silence for a long moment. Then the cold blast of air whipped through his being again.   
  
"You wish release from your torment?" it asked with the same impossible sound of thunder and whisper both together, even though it knew the answer to the question. It whipped through him again. "To return to the living?"   
  
An aching weariness consumed the soul of the High Priest. 3,000 years out of his time nothing remained for him there, save Anck-sa-namun and vengeance. But even if she lived she did not love him the way he loved her, and his appetite for vengeance had finally died with him.   
  
"I wish only for the true peace of death, or oblivion, great lord Osiris." He whispered as truthfully and penitently as he had ever spoken, unthinkingly making an assumption.   
  
The raging force of a hurricane with all it's sheer mind numbing coldness, the coldness of absolute nothingness blasted through him, causing him to scream as it permeated his very soul.   
  
"Know this." The voice blasted the ancient terrifying fury in it directed at him. "I am not Osiris."   
  
His mind freed, from the chains of his torment, Imhotep's knowledge had flooded back to him, and in that instant of disclaimer, he knew to whom he spoke.  
  
"Lord Set." He gasped, his fear growing exponentially at the mention of the dark God's name. The wind died down, as if it were well pleased with the almost instant recognition and fear in the response. When the whip of cold passed through him again, there was an almost tangible sense of satisfaction in it.   
  
"Serve me," it whispered "and you will receive the oblivion you desire. None else can aid you in this place."   
  
Imhotep was silent. Maybe it was his life as a priest of Osiris, the brother and natural enemy of Set, or maybe it was the torment of the anguish he had been through here, with it's knowledge of the folly of his actions thus far, but the idea of serving this God, even to gain what he most desired did not sit well with him.   
  
But Gods can read what resides within the souls of men, and Set's fury whipped through him once more at his apparent reluctance.   
  
When his screams had died down. The God spoke to him once more.   
  
"Very well." It thundered and murmured. "Return to your torment, but take with you the knowledge of this offer as your only hope in this place of absolute despair. And when the anguish has broken you, call out to me, and I will come." There was an absolute tone of certainty in the Gods next words "And know this, priest of despised Osiris. You will call to me. For it has been written so, since long before your birth."   
  
A fraction of a moment later, Imhotep was returned to the moment of his eternal anguish, as events within the temple of Ahm Shere played out again and again. But even as he screamed his pain, in chorus with those around him, there remained in his memory this time the offer that had been made to him, and the soft dying whisper of the God, that almost crowed as it faded from him   
  
"You are the culmination of a thousand generations of our labours. You will be ours to wield."   
  
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	2. Little Bird

Disclaimer:  
Sadly, I do not own any of the characters in this story except the ones you've never heard of. Which is quite unfortunate really, as if I owned the ones you had heard of, I would probably be quite wealthy and could sit on some beach all day writing this kind of thing. Which, come to think of it, from your perspective is probably something of a relief.   
  
Undoubtedly some small liberty taking with history, ancient mythology, the bible (yes I know some people would regard that as the same thing), and with a take on some characters history that may clash a little with the novels but not (I hope) with the movies. Apologies to those any of that might annoy. But then this is only a story.  
  
__________________________________________________________________________  
  
Beginning our journey back and forth through time, hopefully you won't get nauseous during the ride.   
___________________________________________________________________________  
  
  
The Mummy's Shadow  
Chapter Two  
  
'Little Bird'  
  
  
  
The Temple City of Abydos, Egypt, 1296 B.C  
  
The child pushed through the crowd, head raised, straining to see the faces of the adults that towered above her, seeking out the familiar features of her beloved father. Her small dark chin clenched tight, determined not to let her traitorous lower lip start trembling and tears come to her eyes, while she staved off the rising panic at the knowledge that she was now, well and truly lost in this massive crowd.   
  
Her mother having only recently died, Nephet, her father, had come here to the city of Abydos, on business, his only child by his side. Knowing his daughter's love of spectacle, he had deliberately scheduled his business in this great city to coincide with the Festival of Osiris, where the statue of the great God was paraded through the city streets to the general rejoicing of both the city population and the vast number of assembled pilgrims. From near and far in Egypt and it's vassal states they came to watch the mystery play, where the death and resurrection of Osiris was re-enacted, in the forecourt of the great temple.   
  
They had dressed in their finest linen, and joined the other pilgrims as they flocked to take their place in the sea of white robed people clamouring to see the sight of thousands of priests, carrying the figure of the God of the underworld, released for one day from it's confines in the temple to parade through the garland decked city streets.   
  
Propped up on her father's shoulder she had marvelled at the lavishness of the procession, the serenity and piety of the priests, the regalia of the King's emissaries, and the sheer scale of the crowd. Watched intently while, before the sacred statue, the we'ebs, the lowest of the priests, carried incense and offerings of all kinds, animal, vegetable and mineral, given to them by the people of the city and the pilgrims, leading the statue in the ceremonial parade to one of the largest temples in Egypt.  
  
There, in the forecourt, the statue was to be restored to the inner sanctum, the holy of holies, and the sacred prayers and formulas observed by the massed priesthood, representing all the Gods would begin. The crowd would watch the mystery play, before dispersing to riotous celebration and feasting.  
  
After the procession had passed, and the prayer ceremony in the Temple had begun, her father, had decided to see whether they might be able to get closer so that she might actually be able to see the play itself.   
  
But others too had the same idea, and yet more, were retiring from the scene altogether, going to their homes or to join others in early celebration of the day. As her father pushed his way through the jostling comings and goings of the crowd, a sudden surge broke his grip on her hand, and she lost sight of him. Crushed and pushed, she was spun around, till all she could see was a sea of white.   
  
With everyone dressed the same, from the level of her perspective, and without his hand or face to guide her, she couldn't tell her father from anyone else. She had called out to him, but unknown faces had peered down at her, and spoke to her in strange dialects, impairing her attempts to reach her father's ears, or for his voice to reach hers.  
  
Impatiently, she had pulled away from these strange talking countrymen and women of hers and started to shove her way past the legs of these people. Head up, trying to see him. Continuously calling out to him. But succeeding in attracting only the attention of strangers.   
  
A proud girl, with a streak of self-sufficiency and confidence inherited from her mother she scorned their offers of aid, and pushed on alone. But even in the most mature of 10 year olds, the fear eventually starts to undermine the bravado, and she could feel the lump in her throat growing with every step.   
  
She stopped, and still being bumped and jostled, stood there, trying to focus her worried thoughts. She was just wandering aimlessly and that wasn't going to get her anywhere. This wasn't Giza, home. If she was lost there, she could at least find some familiar landmark and make her way to their house. But this was a strange city and she had no idea how to find her way to their lodgings from here.   
  
There was only one option open to her. Looking up again, she peered not at the faces but beyond them, seeking for a glimpse of the Great Temple. Once she caught sight of it, far off to her left, she decided to make her way towards the vast building, as that had been the place she knew for sure her father had been heading.   
  
For what seemed like an age, she soldiered on, using the agility and litheness inherited from her talented mother, dancing through brief openings, darting through spaces. Where those talents couldn't help her, she proceeded by squeezing through tiny gaps between people and where there were none, strategically pinching people or standing on their toes in order to create the space she needed to get by when they jumped and moved in pain. A quick flash of a sweet and innocent smile got her out of trouble, when pained faces would angrily turn to question who had injured them.   
  
Finally, she could hear the chanting and counter chanting of the priests and see, over the heads of the thin line of people left in front of her, the tall colonnaded temple looming over her. Making a last effort to push to the very front, this time she accidentally stood on the toes of a large man as she tried to squeeze past him. With a roar of pain, emanating from above her, she felt the push of a large hand, as he shoved her away from him, and she flew forward, out of the crowd, landing heavily on her knees, her face smashing into the thigh of a priest.   
  
Shockingly disturbed from his reverent prayer, the bald headed man in white, turned a furious face towards her and let out a shout of anger at such blasphemy. Dragging herself to her feet, she felt her face go ashen in fear at having triggered the anger of such a revered man. Visions of eternal damnation entered her head, her soul being cast into the belly of the beast, never to be reborn.   
  
All courage and composure left her and she fled. But in her blind panic, ran the wrong way.   
  
Without thinking she charged not back towards the crowd behind her, but right into the crowd of priests lined up in front of the temple beyond her, and instead of removing herself from the vicinity of pious wrath, she threw herself right into a bubbling cauldron of it.  
  
The song and counter song of the religious continued, but was joined in a third discordant counterpoint by the contingent of angry men's voices which filled the air. Hands tried to grab hold of her as she blindly bumped and span around, trying to find her way out as soon as she realised what she had done. She could feel the tears of panic and fear streaming down her cheeks, even though she couldn't remember actually starting to cry.   
  
A hand grabbed hold of her long black hair, and she was yanked backwards, her head pulled back to see the livid face of a heavy set, silver body painted, older priest.   
  
"Impudent child!" he snarled, his hand tightening its hold on her hair, causing her to cry out in pain as it pulled on her scalp.   
  
"Stop!" another voice called out. A voice different from the others, softer, lighter. Feminine.   
  
Heads turned, voices quietened, as the group of 20 or so priests caught up in the turmoil turned in the direction of the commanding voice. Head still pulled back, movement restricted, the child moved her eyes towards the sound.  
  
Surrounded by bald men, who cleared a path for her quickly and reverently, the long black haired woman with ebony eyes, dressed in a white streaked gold threaded linen sheath which tied beneath her breasts, with an ornate gold circlet on her head and gold armlets running the length of her forearms, strode towards them almost imperiously.   
  
As she walked, she snapped at the silver we'eb who held the child firm. "Release her!" His grip loosened and retracted immediately.   
  
Freed, the child looked about as if to run, before her curiosity got the better of her, and she stayed to watch this woman's continuing approach. The child could see that she carried in one hand a golden sistrum, the instrument used in priestly displays, and about her person, on the armlets, necklace and circlet she wore, were the symbols of a religious.  
  
The symbols of Isis.   
  
She was a priestess, and from the way the men around her reacted, she seemed to outrank them. From their facial expressions, she was at least, 'A servant of the god'. That thought alone gave her pause. In her young experience, men did not obey women, except for servants and slaves. The way the men parted in front of her was almost miraculous to watch.   
  
The woman reached her and looked down, a speculative look on her face that almost looked like a smile.   
  
"Are you well, Anck-sa-namun?" the woman asked, and on hearing her name from this woman's mouth, the little girl's mouth dropped open.   
  
"Answer!" the heavy set priest snarled, trying to get into the good graces of this senior ranking priestess of his sect, a woman that he had certainly not expected to see. He was met by a glare of such distaste from the priestess that he almost flinched under it.   
  
"You will be silent." She said levelly, but her voice dripped with malevolence "He who does not value a child does not truly serve Isis, or the Gods, and should have no voice in this place." She looked around at the others before returning her gaze to the man.   
  
"A child is the essence of the future, and should be carefully moulded by those around them, like clay on a potters wheel. You and your ilk break them with your treatment, and waste their value." She looked back towards Anck-sa-namun, and a soft smile played once again around her mouth, encouraging the child, till the little girl moved towards her seeking her touch, her protection.   
  
The woman stroked Anck-sa-namun's jet black hair almost absently. "This one has great value. More value than you know, and more than you or a thousand of your sort is worth."   
  
Moving down to sit on her haunches, the priestess moved her beautiful and highly decorated face to a level with the little girls. Her ring bedecked hand moved gently to the child's chin and moved her head up and down, as if closely examining the girl's features.   
  
"You command them." Anck-sa-namun murmured, finally plucked up the courage to speak, and pointing at the priests. The priestess smiled.   
  
"I do." She stated before returning to her scrutiny of the girl.   
  
"You are much like your mother." The priestess spoke softly, so softly that only Anck-sa-namun could hear her words, and looked again at the woman in surprise. "You have her spirit and will be a great beauty when you are older. But you will fly higher than she." She nodded approvingly, as if satisfied by the certain knowledge of this.   
  
Then her look grew intense, dark even, and she gripped the child's arms tightly with her hands, pinning them almost painfully to the girl's sides.   
  
"Remember this moment, little bird," she commanded the girl. "Remember me. Know that grasping hands will seek to block your flight. If you wish to fly free seek the highest branch so you may soar. And always remember that the highest branches grow on the mightiest trees."   
  
Anck-sa-namun stared mutely at this beautiful priestess who commanded men, knew her name without the asking of it, and seemed to know her mother. She wanted to ask questions, many questions, but the woman turned her head from her, just as she tried to form the words of the first.   
  
"Go now," the priestess said, rising up from her crouched position with the girl. "Your father comes."   
  
The girl, looked around trying to look where the priestess was looking, and after a moment, there pushing through the crowd was her father. Her relief at his approach was tempered by the desire to stay here and query this woman not only about how she knew her name and of her family but about how she came to be who she was? And, in the way of little girls, how she too could be like her?   
  
After acknowledging her father's cries to her with a wave and a smile, she turned back to start her questions. Only to find the priestess gone, the ranks of priests closing behind her in her wake, returning once more to their lines, resuming their prayers.   
  
__________________________  
  



	3. In The Midst Of Strangers

Disclaimer:  
Sadly, I do not own any of the characters in this story except the ones you've never heard of. Which is quite unfortunate really, as if I owned the ones you had heard of, I would probably be quite wealthy and could sit on some beach all day writing this kind of thing. Which, come to think of it, from your perspective is probably something of a relief.   
  
Undoubtedly some small liberty taking with history, ancient mythology, the bible (yes I know some people would regard that as the same thing), and with a take on some characters history that may clash a little with the novels but not (I hope) with the movies. Apologies to those any of that might annoy. But then this is only a story.  
____________________________________________________________________  
  
  
  
Chapter Three  
  
'In The Midst of Strangers'  
  
  
  
The City of Giza, Egypt, 1291 B.C.  
  
Rameses, Prince of Egypt, named for his illustrious grandfather, and next lord of the Upper and Lower Kingdoms kicked the sand at his feet in disgust, sending up a shower of dust over the poor merchants currently prostrated at his feet.   
  
The market places and shops of Giza had proven to be a sore disappointment to him. He and his retinue were on their way home from their long tour of the upper and lower kingdoms on the business of the Pharaoh.   
  
The business of his father, Seti, living God, favoured of Ra, King of all Egypt and lord of all he surveyed. Business that had seen him re-writing the history of Egypt to their house's satisfaction, tabulating the wealth and prosperity of the nation, overseeing the building of great works in his father's name, and collecting tribute from their border subject countries.   
  
They had been a long time away from Thebes, from home, and Rameses and his lieutenants were all eager for the comforts of home and family.   
  
But as any good husband, son and brother knew, you must never return empty handed. His father would be best pleased by his eldest sons fine work, and would require no more gift than that, but he had other family members to attend to.  
  
Or to be more accurate, at this stage, one in particular. His most favoured sister, Nefertiri.   
  
He had purchased, or taken, gifts for the others, including his two wives, along the journey, but nothing had struck him as right for his beloved little sister. Giza was their last city stop on the way to Thebes and he had pinned all his hopes on finding something for her here. But the famed wares of the port of Giza had not lived up to his expectations.   
  
He was surrounded by the wealth of the world, sweet smelling cedar from Palestine and Sheba, jewels from Ethiopia, silks, spices and perfumes from Kohr, Persia and other far flung lands. But nothing seemed right for her.   
  
He wanted something unique for her, something rare and unusual.   
  
He looked around at his friends and courtiers, all of whom were either watching him or involved in purchases of their own with merchants who were desperately trying to tread the fine line between self preserving, live saving obsequiousness and honour preserving, face saving haggling.   
  
"Nothing!" he announced bitterly with a shrug of his shoulders and another flurry of sand from his feet. His princes lock flew back as he turned in a whirl of sheer linen cape from the flattened and dust covered merchants behind him, and strode on through the stalls and tents, followed by a contingent of his bodyguard and some of his retinue.  
  
Everywhere, people dropped to their knees and prostrated himself as this tall, and immensely athletic figure approached them. As a man Rameses was imposing enough. Tall for one of his people, he towered over most of his compatriots, sallow skinned and hawk eyed. Robustly built like his father, he retained the fine boned structure of his mother and the combination made him an immensely handsome man. His musculature was taut and highly defined, thanks to a love of sport and his father's insistence that he run every morning before he breakfasted.   
  
His eyes shone with intelligence and the confidence born of knowing that the people worshipped you. And he was worshipped. Rameses was beloved of his people, not just as their future king, or even as their future god, but as a man, a hero, a warrior.   
  
A man fit to lead Egypt, and them.   
  
The hubbub of the marketplace had quietened considerably upon his arrival, continuing only as a distant hum in those places he was furthest from. To look upon the Pharaoh and his best and brightest without permission was forbidden, though of course sneaking a peak was generally overlooked if done with discretion. The royal family of Egypt may have been Gods, but their people were only human after all. If you were not of a sufficient social level, however, speaking without being spoken to was tantamount to murder in levels of crime and was dealt with swiftly by those entrusted with maintaining the safety and honour of the highest members of the ruling family, the Medjai.   
  
The only other sound in the vicinity that was apparent as Rameses arbitrarily stopped by a shop displaying magnificent gold working by a master craftsman, was the sound of a slave labour gang out of sight on the edge of the marketplace digging a new cistern.  
  
Rameses, perused the glittering wares through narrowed eyes, finally gently fingering a necklace displaying the image of the goddess Bast, patron of love, femininity and fashion, made from interwoven threads of gold, and hung on a thread that was strong, but so fine as to look as if it might break if you picked it up. So fine, that if worn it would disappear against the skin, and give the impression the image of Bast was simply floating there as if by some divine magic.  
  
"It's beautiful." A voice from beside him interrupted his admiration. Rameses turned his head to his left to see the son of his father's youngest sister, his 16 year old cousin Tuthmose gazing at the piece. Tuthmose, almost as tall but slenderer of build than his older cousin, turned his unusual hazel brown eyes to Rameses's typically Egyptian black brown ones, "It would look beautiful on her." He smiled. Rameses nodded in silence.  
  
It was exquisite, Rameses admitted, and would look even more so around the slender neck of his sister, and by Pharaonic tradition, eventually, his wife. He looked down at the merchant, by his feet intending to ask the price.   
  
"But my lord prince," a voice came from his right shoulder, and Rameses swivelled his head across and down to the early middle aged visage of the man, who though some 10 years younger than Seti was like a second father to him, his friend, physician, and advisor, the priest of Isis, Sekhnet. "Beautiful as it is, the reflection of the sun that is your sister, Princess Nefertiri, has many such trinkets. Recall the Eye of Horus given to her by your father, blessed be his name, on her last birthday?"  
  
Rameses hesitated, recalling the gasps that had gone up around the court at the magnificent artistry of the gold, sapphire and precious lapis lazuli necklace that Seti had had made for the apple of his eye. He nodded.  
  
"I know, my priestly friend." The prince sighed in resignation, his face the mirror image of all men stuck trying to find the perfect gift for a woman, "But, there is little else to choose from and I can afford little further time to this pursuit if we are to finish our work here, and then travel on to Memphis and Lisht, and still return home to Thebes in 30 days at the hour appointed by my father."  
  
The priest acceded this point, pulling his white robe more firmly about his shoulders. "Indeed my lord prince, but there is time still yet this day and many more vendors, surely there must be something more unique and exotic...."  
  
The priest stopped suddenly, as an uproar just beyond their line of vision caused all heads, even those pressed to the ground to turn in the direction of the edge of the marketplace.   
  
Rameses let go of the necklace and strained his head towards the sound of shouting men and clanging metal.   
  
"Sounds like trouble." Another voice said from behind him, sounding the little the worse for wear for wine. The good natured Akehton, Rameses half brother and closest friend approached them, a frown on his face. Rameses smiled at him.   
  
"Always the master of summation, my brother." He joked. Akehton inclined his princely locked head graciously, despite the gentle jibe.  
  
"Thank you, my brother." He smiled at Rameses and Tuthmose, and placed his hand on the ornate gold handled, brass sword by his side. "Shall we investigate?"  
  
As one the 3 young men, hands on their weapons, started at as a fast trot, causing consternation all about them. Dismayed Medjai scrambled after them as the 3 men headed for trouble. Prostrated men and women scrambled to get out of the way of their lords and masters, while those behind them dove to the ground on seeing their approach.  
  
On reaching the edge of the market place, they immediately saw the trouble. One of the members of the slave labour gang had attacked a guard and was currently trying to make a run for it.   
  
It was a futile chase, even if he were to escape the guards into the market place and out of Giza, alone and on foot he would be recognised by his clothes as an escaped slave and would either be killed or returned to servitude. But, still, the vigorousness with which the individual in question was pursuing this vain quest for freedom was quite impressive, and he was well served by the arrival of the royal party.   
  
A goodly contingent of the chasing pack saw the royal group and immediately dropped to their knees in supplication, and pushed their foreheads to the ground, taking almost half of the men off the fugitive's heels.   
  
Akehton rolled his eyes.   
  
There was pandemonium everywhere as stalls and goods and guards were laid out all over the streets as the man tried desperately to get away, armed only with a wooden hoe. Only 10ft away from them, and ignoring their arrival completely, he clambered up on a stall and from it's wooden awning leapt mightily towards the roof of the shop it fronted, and then heaved himself up onto the flat roof above. A couple of guards clambered after him, only to be knocked back by a couple of accurate swats with the hoe.   
  
The princely trio all strained to see the man in question. After despatching the two guards he straightened up and looked around him, allowing them a good view of him, and him of them. He looked down at them for a moment, before dodging a weakly thrown spear and racing across the roof.   
  
Rameses raised his eyebrows and looked at his companions, who wore similar expressions of surprise.   
  
Dressed only in the leather skirt of the slaves, with old sandals on his feet the man was easily taller than Rameses, his muscle mass bulkier and better defined than even the crown prince's. But it was his colouring that most fascinated them. Despite the sun's attention to him during his labours under it's gaze, it was clear that his skin was fair, far fairer than even the most Northerly Hittite's they had ever encountered.   
  
His long tangled hair and matted beard was the colour of the lightest mahogany wood, and the sun had caused it to streak fair in a manner none of them had ever seen before. And then there was his eyes. They were blue.   
  
"What is he?" Akehton looked at Tuthmose, who shrugged and looked at Rameses, who simply returned his blank look, before looking around him, searching. His eyes alighted on what he was looking for, the red banded black head dress of the foreman. He approached the prostrate form.   
  
"Up." He commanded. The foreman leapt to his feet, eyes downwards, averted from the princely gaze. "Go after your men, tell them the fugitive is not to be harmed and have him brought to me immediately on his capture." The foreman nodded and went to race after the pursuing guards, only to be stopped by the hand of the prince on his arm. At being touched by the royal personage the man looked up in shock, straight at Rameses, then, in terror at that breach of protocol, immediately averted his gaze again.   
  
Rameses sighed "You might find it easier to catch him, if you take all your men?" he suggested lightly, looking around at the still prone half of the labour gang.   
  
Head still bowed, the foreman's eyes took in his underlings still bowing forms.   
  
"Up! Up! UP! Take him!" he yelled with all the anger, embarrassment and terror currently coursing through his veins. His foot lashed out hard, booting his men after the fugitive. "The Prince commands it!" Not daring to look back at Rameses the foreman chased after them as they chased their escapee.   
  
Rameses looked over his shoulder at his Medjai captain.   
  
"Take some of your men and help them...I have a feeling they may need it." The Medjai bowed and moved to go. "Make sure he is unharmed." Rameses commended him forcefully, and let them go.   
  
Tuthmose walked to where one or two of the local women were attending to the stricken guard. He cast a glance sideways at the remaining slaves who flinched under his look as they would do under a whiplash. Most of them were Hebrews, a large number of whom still dwelled in the region of Goshen despite the mass Exodus generations before, there was a sprinkling of Nubians, Libyans and Hittites amongst them, but no other like the fugitive.   
  
"What happened?" he queried of the women. Their eyes flickered back and forth from the wounded guard, blood flowing from a deep gash on his forehead, to the prince before them, not knowing whether to look at him or not.   
  
"We do not know, Lord." One woman finally managed.  
  
"We heard the cry and saw this man fall, and the slave standing over him." The other explained. Tuthmose looked around, there were still two guards watching over the remaining slaves, keeping them in line with their whips.   
  
He asked the same question of them. Their heads bowed, they were silent. Finally one muttered.   
  
"He tried to escape, he...."  
  
"That is a lie." A deep voice interrupted the guard, and those within earshot stared at surprise at the group of slaves from whence it came. For an Egyptian to speak unbidden to one as high born as this prince was rare enough, for a slave it was unheard of.   
  
The guard's whips were up in a flash, and came down heavily on the back of one of the Nubian's, an old man whose back bore the marks of many whippings over the long years but whose skin was already raw from a clearly fresh application of leather. But still his eyes shone defiance at their inflictors.   
  
"STOP!" Tuthmose roared, inflicting yet more surprise on the surrounding group, Rameses and Akehton included, their quiet and introspective cousin rarely raised his voice in anger. The guards blinked at him in shock. Tuthmose turned his attention to the old man.  
  
"What do you mean it was a lie?" he said coolly "Speak."  
  
"2 of us, myself, my friend" he indicated the rooftops and the escaped man "and that guard," he looked at the guard on the ground "were sent to fetch our water ration." Tuthmose moved closer, nodding, and the man stopped speaking, the realisation of who he was talking to, suddenly hitting home and overwhelming the courage he had found in the break by his young friend.   
  
"Go on." Tuthmose encouraged, his voice warmer than before.   
  
"My lord prince," the old man continued "The guard thinks I am old and should not live. On our way back, the guard decided that I had not worked hard enough and did not deserve any water, and tripped me. Causing me to fall and spill half our water ration. When we returned he told the foreman that I was old and weak and had fallen and spilled the water. The foreman ordered him to beat me." His tone though supplicant once more hinted at defiance. "My lord, the guard was right, I am old, and lord, even though I am still strong enough to work, I knew that when the guard was finished I would no longer be fit to do so...my friend knew this too and...."  
  
"....and your friend stepped in?"   
  
"Please, my lord." The old man said quickly trying to plead for the man who had saved his life "He is not like us. He is new and young. He does not speak and understand us well. He..."  
  
"Where is he from?" came the voice of Rameses from Tuthmose's side.   
  
"Yes, where?" Akehton echoed his brother.   
  
The nervousness returned to the old mans' voice as he was faced by the inquisitive Royal triumvirate.   
  
"I know not precisely where, oh princes." He swallowed, and spoke carefully so as not to cause offence. When you spoke to princes, death hung off every wrong word. "I have been teaching him to speak as we..." he winced "...that is, as I do. His language is passing strange sires, and he has difficulty with...forgive me...our...tongue."   
  
The nodded understanding but impatient. He continued.  
  
"He comes from a country far to the North and West he says." Looking away from the Princes towards the direction his friend had run, a wry smile crossed the old man's features "He says this land is cold, far colder than here, but that the land is all as if the blessings of the Nile covered it all year. Fertile fields and great forests, all green." He spoke in a kind of disbelieving hopeful way. "I am not sure I believe him, great ones. And yet I have never seen one like him before."  
  
Rameses was momentarily distracted by the sudden realisation that Sekhnet had joined them. The priest saw his prince's quizzical glance.  
  
"I have heard, oh great prince," he informed him in educated tones "that much of the land far to the North across the sea is indeed green and fertile and much forested, but none live there but savage tribes known as the Celtoii."   
  
"Savage?" Akehton echoed, and smiled grimly "It would seem, given his size and strength, that we should thank the Gods that they do live far to the North then."   
  
Rameses gave him a look of impatience. "Not that we could not master them of course." Akehton continued on his brother's look.  
  
A shout in the distance went up, and was echoed around the surrounding streets where it originated, bringing the words closer to the assembly. They had caught him. Akehton grinned at his brother.   
  
"See?" Despite himself, Rameses laughed.   
  
"Can you speak his language?" Tuthmose asked of the man, who shook his head.  
  
"No, lord prince. He speaks it only to himself in the mornings and evenings as Ra moves his chariot across the sky. But he learns the words of our tongue quickly." He hesitated. "Forgive me, lord...but if you speak slowly, he should understand."  
  
A moment or two later a mass of men, some Medjai, some slave guards poured back into the opening on the edge of the square. The middle of this group opened up and the man was flung forward, falling and landing heavily on the ground, winding him.   
  
Other than that, as per Rameses orders he was unharmed.   
  
The 3 princes and the priest moved forward, mirrored edgily by the Medjai, uncomfortable at the proximity of such luminaries to the prisoner.   
  
They waited in silence until the captured man looked up, trying to gulp air back into his too rapidly emptied lungs. His eyes met Rameses'. And did not look away.  
  
The butt of a Medjai spear was thrust hard into his back, and the air he had managed to return to his lungs emptied again in a cry of pain, which rapidly became an animal snarl. He moved towards the one causing him pain, only for the Medjai to flip his spear around so that the man was met by the sight of the tip of the spear in his face. He halted, but still growled something up at the man.   
  
None of them recognised his words. Rameses looked around his retinue, which had fully joined him now, from their faces none of the learned men who travelled with him seemed to understand the tongue. He looked at Sekhnet, who, unperturbed, silently indicated that he was not able to comprehend the language.   
  
"You are fortunate you are not dead." Rameses commented in a slow matter of fact tone.   
  
The man's attention returned to the crown prince, and his gaze was again direct, even evaluative. Another Medjai pushed his head to the ground and went to punish his impudence again with the butt of his spear, but Rameses held out a hand to stop him. The man on the ground looked from the guard to Rameses, or at least his feet, before turning his head sideways. Then he spoke, his speech slow and heavily accented.  
  
"He is dead?" he indicated the guard on the ground. This time two or three spears rose up, forcing Rameses to stop them vocally.  
  
"Hold! No one touches him save on my say so!" he glared angrily around him "I think I am the best judge of who impugns me and who does not!"  
  
"Why hit me?" the slow halting voice struggled for the words "Not...attack...you."  
  
"Do you know who he is?" Sekhnet spoke quietly to the man about Rameses.  
  
"I know not." He answered in the well practised phrase of the stranger in a strange land. He paused, then unexpectedly continued albeit painfully slowly. "Nor ever know, if not allowed look!"   
  
There was silence at this unexpected indirect attack on convention. Rameses blinked, and looked at Tuthmose, Akehton and Sekhnet, all were similarly surprised, but all too betrayed the slightest of smiles around their mouths and the Prince of Princes started to laugh. A broad smile on his face he beamed at his closest companions.   
  
"He has a point." He conceded. He looked down at him. "Up." He commanded "You may rise up."   
  
The man looked from side to side warily, as if expecting the next painful blunt thrust any moment, then gingerly he pulled himself upright, to face the next King of Egypt. By the time he had finished that feat, Rameses, for the first time in his life since he was a boy, found himself looking up at the face of a man.   
  
Again the royal companions exchanged looks. He was young, quite young, but fully grown and close up he was quite the sight, huge, bearded, covered in dirt and dust, his strangely coloured hair dishevelled, his sky blue eyes flashing, he looked every inch the 'savage' type Sekhnet had spoken of. Rameses betrayed no loss of composure.  
  
"Do you know what the punishment is for a slave striking a guard?"   
  
The man's brow furrowed as he tried to follow the words. He glanced at his older friend who said the middle word again for him, with gestures. He nodded and straightened.  
  
"I know not." He said again. "I care not." His tone was indifferent but the slight swallow after the words betrayed a tinge of fear, but no more than that. Rameses smiled slightly, knowingly. Perhaps because of that smile, the young man spoke again, surprising him. "He...earned...it."   
  
Rameses inclined his head at his words "How so?" he enquired, though he knew the story.  
  
All could see the man considering explaining what happened, but realising he didn't have the words. Finally he chose a phrase.  
  
"He is....he is..." again his brows furrowed and he looked at his friend. "The word?" he asked. "The word for when a man is not...true?"   
  
"Honour." Rameses surprised him by supplying it. The man blinked at him, unsure. "When a man is not true to himself and to what he believes?" Rameses offered. Slowly the blue eyed slave nodded.   
  
"Honour." He repeated slowly, savouring it, and Rameses could see the word being filed away for future reference, an important one in his lexicon obviously. The man might be a savage, but he was obviously intelligent, the prince noted to himself. The slave spoke again, his vocabulary enhanced, his eyes fixed on the sky.   
  
"He is not honour."   
  
Rameses nodded. He was fascinated. "Still." He said pointedly "To strike a guard is death." The young man didn't flinch this time.   
  
"Life without...honour...is death." He stated flatly. Rameses looked at his 3 companions who were, he saw, all as fascinated by the man as he was.   
  
"Honour." Rameses said slowly "Means much to you." He commented.   
  
"Life without..."   
  
"...honour is death...I know." Rameses held up his hand and finished for him. Rameses looked at the old man. "Why did you risk your life for this man?" he asked the young man curiously. The young slaves eyes finally left the sky and returned to his friend with a gentle regard.   
  
"A friend. A...." he lapsed suddenly into his own words "An cara mhaith, an fear mhaith...." He smiled "Help me ...teach me. Honour is due to him." His words were firm. "I honour him."  
  
Rameses was impressed. He may have sounded like a pre-school infant, but he was brave, and of course, honourable, to the death. Just like the Medjai.   
  
A thought occurred to him, and his mind began to sift through the possibilities here. He was immensely strong, agile...there was time yet before returning home, and with a little training maybe...he looked at Sekhnet, his mentor,   
  
"Unique and exotic." He commented. Sekhnet, inclined his head in agreement, but said nothing. Rameses looked back at the man, who was still looking at his friend.   
  
"If I set him free, gave him money. Would you honour me?"  
  
The young man looked at him startled. Albeit no more than everyone else bar Sekhnet.   
  
"Free?" he repeated, with the same reverence he did for the word honour.   
  
Rameses nodded, and gestured towards the group of slaves. "Yes. In fact, I will set all these men free, and give them enough money to support their families or leave Egypt. If..." he paused, as much for dramatic effect as anything, "...you will swear to serve me."   
  
A murmur of disbelief started with the slaves and moved throughout the crowd at the prince's words. The man didn't quite grasp all the words, but the look of surprise on his face showed quite clearly that he had gotten the gist of it.   
  
"Serve?" he repeated hesitantly. Rameses nodded, a mild smile on his face.  
  
"Were you a King at home?"   
  
"King?" he echoed, then shook his head "No."  
  
"A Prince then?"   
  
That word missed completely, he looked at his friend, who pondered a moment.   
  
"Son of a King." He said quietly. The slave nodded understanding.   
  
"Mhac an Ri..." he whispered, before returning his attention to Rameses "No...Prince."   
  
"Then you served a King." Rameses stated as if this must be a fact.   
  
"Served. King." He tested the words out loud "Yes. Mo Tuath, Mo Clann, Mo Ri." He nodded vigorously. "I Served King."  
  
"Good." Rameses smiled. "Then," he said slowly. "I will be your master, your..." he hesitated "Mockonri?" he attempted, to repeat the slaves words. The slave looked at him sharply to see if he was being mocked, but Rameses only looked at him expectantly.   
  
"Mhac an Ri." He repeated for him, his tone one of curiosity, as if he was unsure of the man who stood before him. He looked around at the guards, then gingerly raised a finger "Mhac an Ri?" he asked pointing at Rameses, who nodded.   
  
"That is why they hit you." Sekhnet said slowly to him. "He is the Prince of all this country. All Egypt. When you look at him, when you speak to him without per..."he hesitated "his...wishes...you do him no honour. Our country no honour."   
  
The man followed the words slowly then nodded. He was a slave here, far from his home, baked alive under a sun hotter then he ever would have believe possible, worked to dropping and beaten if he did. But these people had not enslaved him, others had done that, slaughtered the members of his clann he had been travelling with and taken him prisoner, then sold him on.   
  
He understood slavery, there were slaves at home too, but there were differences, confusing ones.   
  
He had at first hoped to be able to work his freedom, earn his blood price through valuable service, and then he would go looking for the ones who killed his clann brothers, and would return home. But his new masters had taken him far away, to strange places, and then they had reached this sun blasted place, teeming with more people than he had ever seen in one place, where he had been put to work with these men.   
  
Here, once he had learned a basic grasp of the language, his friend had explained to him, there was no earning your freedom. Here he would be a slave forever, unless his master wished otherwise.   
  
It was dishonourable, he thought. You may kill a man, but do not take away his hope for freedom. His only hope as a slave was a master, and as part of a labour gang he had no master. No hope. Therefore he had had nothing to lose by attacking the guard, only regaining his honour and dying a free man while defending his friend.   
  
But now this man, this 'Prince' offered him a chance of a master. A chance of freedom. He seemed an honourable man, his eyes, when at last he'd been able to see them, had spoken of that. He tested his theory. Looking at the small bald man in white who had spoken to him last, he asked.  
  
"If No?"   
  
"Then..." Rameses answered for himself, weighing his words carefully, knowing he was being tested and finding he rather enjoyed it. "...then I will simply set your old friend free and allow you to live and work on here." At this generosity, there were more murmurs from the crowd, both noble and common alike. "What the guard did was wrong. I free you from your death sentence, it is in your hands to free the others. It is my offer. It is your choice."  
  
Without looking at Rameses, the man nodded. There would be no punishment. It was his choice. He was an honourable man this...prince. He remembered the words of the small man in black about dishonouring the Prince. Their ways weren't his ways or the ways of his people. But if he wished to leave here and return home, they would have to become his ways, and he would have to honour them.   
  
He looked once more at Rameses by way of apology then dropped his eyes. He moved his hand in the direction of his fellow slaves.   
  
"All?" he asked.   
  
"All." Rameses said firmly "I will set them all free. Give them money, and take you from here, if you will swear upon your honour to serve me as your Prince. By your own free will."   
  
Eyes averted, he gazed once more at the sky. The choice was obvious. It was generous. Yet he knew he had to ask one more thing, and could lose all by asking it. He opened his hands, palm up, in what he had discovered to be the universal form of supplicant request, be it to a Clann Chief or to women at a well who might take pity on a thirsting slave.   
  
"Despite your startlingly generous offer, it seems that he has something else to ask you, my brother." Akehton informed him.   
  
"Speak." Rameses indicated.   
  
"Get my freedom?" the stilted words came out painfully slow. He risked a glance at the prince. "Blood price. My country, work hard..." He explained as best he could, trying desperately to think of words that would help him.   
  
Sekhnet smiled understanding, and decided to step in. "It would appear my lord prince, that where ever he comes from they practice the idea of a slave working to his full potential and paying in work what he is worth, his 'blood price' obviously, thereby garnering his freedom."  
  
"Really?" Akehton commented wryly. "Thank the Gods we don't do that here. If I gave freedom to the value of the slaves I have I'd have to let them all go the day after I bought them."   
  
Rameses nodded at his brother. "Interesting, but you are right, we could not afford to do it here." He looked speculatively at the slave before him, and considered. "Very well." He conceded. And once again the ripple of disbelief moved around him. "But." He said loudly and those around him fell quiet.   
  
"...I warn you. I may not be the one who decides your worth...." Something basic suddenly occurred to him. "...what is your name?"  
  
"Name?" the blue eyed slave echoed again, before drawing himself up proudly "Cian Mac Concobhair." He declared of his heritage.  
  
Rameses drew a blank. He looked at the others, who were similarly trying to mouth the strange words.   
  
"Keeee.....ahn?" he tried, looking at his brother, who shrugged helplessly. Rameses came to a decision.   
  
"Keeahn." He placed a hand on the slave's shoulder, conferring the name on him. Cian looked up. "Keeahn." Rameses said again making it clear to him. The blue eyed man hesitated, then nodded his agreement both to the name and to the deal,   
  
"Swear." He pledged.   
  
"Good!" Rameses exclaimed, pleased with his days work. He looked at the Medjai Captain. "Have him escorted back to our dwelling." The guard bowed and indicated for two of his men to take a firm hold of the looming newcomer, and the three of them lead him away.   
  
Rameses looked to his mentor. "You know my thoughts as always, good Sekhnet." He smiled. "Do you think I am foolish?"   
  
"Only if it doesn't work, my lord prince." The priest smiled at the younger man.   
  
Rameses chuckled.. "And do you think then, that it will work?"   
  
The priest's eyes rested again on the retreating form of the newly named Keeahn, and his smile became more distant. "Only time will tell, my lord prince." Sekhnet replied.  
  
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	4. Worlds Apart

Disclaimer:  
Sadly, I do not own any of the characters in this story except the ones you've never heard of. Which is quite unfortunate really, as if I owned the ones you had heard of, I would probably be quite wealthy and could sit on some beach all day writing this kind of thing. Which, come to think of it, from your perspective is probably something of a relief.   
  
Undoubtedly some small liberty taking with history, ancient mythology, the bible (yes I know some people would regard that as the same thing), and with a take on some characters history that may clash a little with the novels but not (I hope) with the movies. Apologies to those any of that might annoy. But then this is only a story.  
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The Mummy's Shadow  
Chapter Four  
  
  
'Worlds Apart'  
  
Egypt, 1926  
  
The desert moon continued its rise towards the zenith of it's reflected glory, it's huge crescent shape hanging low in the sky. The sun, already setting when they set out, had disappeared no more than an hour into their weary journey home. Elated at first, the trio of battle worn adventurers on their two flea bitten but sturdy camels, had spent that short time in animated discussion about the events of the past few days, congratulating each other, and making light of the danger they had all been in, in the way that people who have looked death square in his face, and don't really want to think about it anymore have a tendency to do.   
  
Throughout the history of the world people had always done the same. Rather than remembering the real terrifying visage, and the nauseating, stomach clenching fear at death's approach they undertook a breath taking revision after the fact and turned him into a precocious child into whose face they'd chuckled while tweaking his nose.   
  
It was an all too human necessity, a safety mechanism to stop you from shutting down from the realisation of how close you had come, ending up with a constant nagging fear of another fatal encounter and spending the rest of your life in a locked room, with the curtains drawn and a pistol under your pillow. Denial and bluff at least allowed them to ride home secure in the knowledge of their safety.   
  
Well, their safety from un-dead mummies intent on bringing long dead lovers back from the dead so that they could rule the world together, at least.   
  
But, while they may have escaped Death's bony clutches, there was no getting away from his better looking twin sister, Sleep. All of them had been up for 48 hours straight, with little enough rest prior to that and all the physical exertions in Hamanaptra since. The danger over, their adrenaline levels settling back to normal, sleep had finally caught up with them, and their exaltation on their escape, had soon been replaced by a bone deep weariness and drowsy silence.   
  
The chill of the night had quickly set in, causing the two new sweethearts on one of the camels to cling even closer to one another, seeking extra warmth. Curled up, wrapped in Rick O'Connell's arms, nestling snugly against his chest, Evelyn Carnahan, exhausted after her ordeal, and despite the swaying of the camel, found more than enough comfort in her position to happily fall asleep.  
  
Over on the other camel, Jonathan Carnahan's chin rested on his chest, his hands and feet wrapped firmly in the rope grips that would allow him to stay in the saddle while he slept. His gentle snores were the only sound in this desert world apart from the plodding of the camels padded feet on the soft sand, and the merest whisper of a breeze.   
  
Only Rick was awake, and though his eyelids felt like someone had placed a nice shiny 2 tonne grand piano on each of them, and his aching body, bloodied and pummelled, pleaded with him for rest, he refused to allow himself to fall asleep.   
  
They may have been safe from nigh on invincible High Priests, but they were out in the middle of the desert, days from anywhere and had been in such a rush to hightail it away from the collapsed city before ol' Imhotep could spring up and yell 'April Fools!', that they'd just grabbed the camels and never thought to check for provisions.   
  
There were bags on both camels but the way things had been going, luck wise, they were probably going to have to go hungry for a while. That didn't concern him. The possible lack of water however, did.   
  
He figured, or rather he hoped, providing there were no delays or need for detours, they could make the journey okay as they were. They couldn't make it back to Fort Brydon, but it was only 2 days straight ride to the Nile and that trading post, where they'd stocked up after the riverboat raid.   
  
The riverboat may be gone, sunk to the bottom of the river by the Medjai attack, but hopefully Jonathan had enough money on him to get them some provisions for the 4 or 5 day ride back to Cairo from there. But it would all be a moot point if the camels weren't kept on track. They'd all wake up to find themselves hopelessly lost if someone didn't keep awake. And that someone had to be him.   
  
Still, common sense was one thing, exhaustion was another and the temptation to just let his head droop and nod off, especially with so inviting a pillow to rest on as the soft mass of dark curls that was Evelyn's head, was immense. His head did dip, but instead of resting his cheek on top of her head, he took the opportunity of her oblivious state to take in a breath full of her scent.   
  
Filling his lungs up as far as he could with oxygen and her perfume, he opened his eyes wide and straightened, gaining enough zest to last him for a little while longer.   
  
He looked around, a tall escarpment, back lit by the moon, smaller but not unlike the one where he had seen Ardeth Bay and the other Medjai riders on his first trip back here with the Carnahans was on their right as they rode.   
  
By that geographical marker, he reckoned he only had to hang on for, oh say, another 5 hours or so. Then, he'd either have to pull up the camels and get some sleep, or just topple neatly in a sleeping heap to the ground.   
  
Neither Evelyn nor Jonathan would be sufficiently sure of the way to risk letting him sleep while they rode on. And with both Evelyn and he on board there weren't enough grips to ensure they'd both stay on. It was one thing, him holding her on with his arms, it was quite another to expect her to keep him on in a similar fashion.   
  
Not that he'd object to her wrapping her arms around him and trying of course, he smiled to himself.   
  
And she would try, that was the thing about her. Evelyn 'never give up, never admit defeat' Carnahan. Even in the face of overwhelming odds she'd stand her ground, and if she went down, she'd go down swinging, verbally at least, chin held high, eyes glinting, defiant to the end.   
  
It was quite possible, that out of all the brave men he had encountered in his life, soldiers, legionnaires, Tuaregs, Bedouins, Medjai, this small, prim and proper, slightly clumsy, librarian was the bravest person he had ever known.   
  
He knew if she hadn't been involved in this expedition, and Imhotep had been raised, he would have been long gone. As soon as they had gotten back from Hamanaptra the first time, with Imhotep hot on their heels, dispensing plagues to the local populace of Fort Brydon and Cairo as if they were candy, he was planning to get the hell out of Dodge. To hell with the world, save your own ass first, that's what he'd been thinking.   
  
But not her. Even if she hadn't felt responsible for unleashing Imhotep on the world she would've stayed and found a way to try and kill him. She was that kind of a girl. She had her principles and she lived by them. He'd gone down to the bar furious with her, furious with himself for caring whether she went with him or not, and truth be told, ashamed of his own behaviour when compared with hers.   
  
She'd taken him by surprise. He'd been so long away from principled people that he'd forgotten they even existed.   
  
The last truly principled person he'd known before her was his mother, and she'd died when he was 10, just before he and his father had left Chicago to seek their fortune in Egypt, with another of his dad's hair brained get rich quick schemes.   
  
Both his parents had emigrated from a destitute Ireland, still haemorrhaging it's people by the hundreds of thousands as a long term result of the Great Famine. Despite being just above the poverty line themselves they were able to get away thanks to the generosity of a local priest who had raised the money for them. His father had leaped at the chance.   
  
His mother, had been pregnant with him at the time, and he knew she never really wanted to leave. Her family, her whole life was there. But she'd loved his father dearly. Despite all his grand talk and blather, and plans that never came to pass, or worse, collapsed spectacularly, it was her belief that a wife stuck by the husband she loved, through thick and thin.   
  
He was born 3 months after they arrived in Chicago. Named after the priest, Richard Coughlan, who had helped them start a new life in the new world. Despite the roller coaster ride his father put them through, his early life had been a happy one. His mother the anchor and rock, not just for him, but for his father, was the one constant in his life, and through her hard work, laundering or sowing, they always seemed to have enough put by to stop from starving to death or being evicted when once again his father would almost reduce them to penury. She was the hardest working person he ever saw, and like the woman sitting nestled in his arms now, she would never give up on a task she knew had to be completed, or a stance she knew was right.   
  
He never recalled her saying a bad word against anyone, and she spent a great deal of her time helping their neighbours in bad straits or at the local church helping with the work for the poor, even though, as he had commented to her, he was fairly sure that the likes of his school mate Jackie Wyczkwi and his family from 3 blocks down, were better off than they were.   
  
The rest of the time she spent making sure he was getting a good education, and trying to keep him on the straight and narrow. There was no problem with school, but was a bit of a loose cannon like his father and he became the leader of a gang of kids in the area, who would cause all kinds of mischief in their search for adventure. It had all been relatively harmless though until he'd shamed his mother by stealing apples and cakes from grocers and bakeries to impress the local girls. The greatest regret he had in his life was seeing the look in her eyes when she heard about it from the cop who'd come to report it to her.   
  
He apologised of course, and without her having to tell him, he went to the men he'd taken the goods from and worked off their value. But he never really got the chance to make it up to her for letting her down and betraying her trust. She had died from influenza that winter. His father, their latest pitiful savings having literally gone South, in a con man's pocket, was left without the means to pay for the heat and medicine in a bitterly cold Chicago winter, that might have saved her.   
  
It had been 2 days after Christmas.   
  
His father, Jack, contrary to the stereotypical view of Irish men, had never taken a drink in his life, needing no addition to his naturally ebullient, erratic and restless nature. But he did then, and what's more he kept on drinking, and ten year old Rick had been forced to drop out of school and get a job as a newsie to make sure he had something to eat in the evenings. His father would disappear on binges for days at a time, lost in his drunken grief, until 6 months later having been gone 2 days he suddenly came home sober with a new suit and 2 tickets to Egypt in his pocket.   
  
Rick had never gotten a straight answer from his father about where he gotten the money to do all this. He'd mumbled something about his mother watching over them and guardian angels from the old country, and the next thing he knew his whole life was turned upside down, much, he supposed, like his mother's had been before that. Then they were on a boat and bound for Southampton, England, and from there onto Cairo and a new life.  
  
And at first it seemed that that was exactly what it was. His father had a job waiting for him, a clerk in a tourism firm, where he would work until he could become a guide for the rich folk who flocked to the likes of the Continental Hotel.   
  
And amazingly Jack had worked hard, was soon operating as a guide, and proving immensely popular. His gift of the 'gab' as his mother had called it, prying praise and high tips from the tourist office's clients.   
  
Rick had even settled back into school with some other lower class ex-patriot children, and was desperately hoping that his father would keep things going. But inevitably his father found an opportunity to blow it.   
  
As always, his father despite outward appearances, had had other schemes in mind. All around them great finds of ancient Egypt were being made, great wealth was being dug up and names and fortunes were being made. As he thought back now the idea occurred to Rick, for the first time, that it was probably the likes of Howard Carnahan, the father of his travelling companions, that influenced his own father into that final flawed deal that would ultimately end his life.  
  
Through a fellow tour guide, a local called Abdul Faziz, he had learned that there was to be an expedition to Memphis, and that if he raised £500.00 pounds he could have a 20% share in what was almost guaranteed to be a find as wealthy as that of Tutenkhamun's tomb.   
  
His father was convinced by the presentation of an Oxford trained Egyptologist, with a list of degrees as long as your arm, and a load of 'ancient' papyri, telling of the resting place of one Satahk, a famed merchant who it was rumoured was almost as wealthy as Pharaoh Rameses IV himself, in whose time he had lived.   
  
His father's exhaustive research had extended to checking that there was a Satahk, that he was rich, and that was that.  
  
He went to a local moneylender, who purported to be his friend, and who did indeed lend him the bulk of the money he needed. Appropriately a King's ransom of £350.00, at the time.   
  
Needless to say, the Egyptologist and Mr Faziz disappeared. The moneylender, however, did not.   
  
His father was found beaten to a bloody pulp, in an alley not far from their home, the day after he missed the deadline for his second instalment. Perhaps the moneylender's hired men had been a little over vigorous, perhaps it was deliberate, but either way his father died from internal injuries in Cairo hospital 3 days later.   
  
He remembered sitting there, holding his dead father's hand in his own, desperately trying to keep it warm with his own. Wondering in the disbelieving numbness that had settled over him, how his Pop could feel so cold on a day as hot at that one He'd sat there all day, no tears, no grief, in shock. It was ten hours before anyone even came to check on how he was. It wasn't until they tried to pry his father's stiff hand from his that he'd finally cracked. They'd had to drag him from the room, from the last vestiges of what family he knew, and were forced to sedate him to stop him from doing himself damage in his desperation to get back to his father.   
  
He never spoke to any of the doctors, just lay there in the bed they'd put him in. An orphan now, future images of life alone scaring him silent. Still, the staff got what they needed from his father's papers, found on his body. A day or so later someone from the U.S Embassy arrived at the hospital.   
  
Without any U.S relatives, and with no names to give him, other than 'O'Connell' for people somewhere in Ireland, the 11 year old Rick was placed in Cairo orphanage, where the remainder of his education shifted from the class room proper to the twin schools of 'hard knocks' and 'dog eat dog'.   
  
In the midst of his thoughts he glanced once more over at the escarpment. And did a double take.   
  
Peering into the gloom, the night not as well lit as it had been when he'd seen the watching Medjai, there appeared to be a shape that could be a lone figure atop of the expanse of rock. Before he could rein in the camel and establish whether or not he was imagining things due to a lack of sleep, a massive yawn overtook him, and his eyes scrunched close involuntarily even as his mouth gaped wide. By the time he opened them again and focused them on the top of the escarpment, what he had seen, if he had even seen it, was no longer there.   
  
Recent events having made him cautious he watched for a little longer before Evelyn stirred a little in his arms, and gave a soft sigh. He moved his head to look down at her face and see if she was alright. From the peaceful look on her face, she looked content and he found himself relaxing.   
  
The orphanage hadn't been far from the richer areas of the centre of Cairo, probably so that the wealthy locals and Euro elite who resided there didn't have to travel far to dispense the small amount of charity that made them feel better about spending vast sums of money on newly excavated trinkets and lavish parties.   
  
Cairo's Museum of Antiquities had only been 3 minutes walk away. He used to be able to see it from his dormitory window. He wondered now whether once upon a time he had ever seen the girl in his arms as a child with her parents, coming in and out of the building they patronised so much.   
  
Maybe he had, maybe that explained why he felt he had known her far longer than the couple of weeks since she had walked into Cairo prison and rescued him from the hangman's noose. Maybe, as an orphan, walking back from his day time job to support himself in the orphanage, and gain him the privilege of a plateful of food, he had seen a pretty, pigtailed, girl with green blue almond shaped eyes, dressed in white and holding her father's hand, and maybe in some childish way he'd fallen in love with her.   
  
Maybe, that would explain why he felt the way he did about her.   
  
Maybe. But he doubted it.   
  
Nothing really explained why he felt about her the way he did. By rights she wasn't remotely even his type. His type had always been blonde, blue eyed and voluptuous, but this was Egypt after all, they weren't exactly plentiful, so failing that, his type was voluptuous, adoring and of easy virtue...though he had been open to the adoring and of easy virtue with the blondes as well.   
  
Smart, principled, stubborn and argumentative hadn't come into it much, as they had an annoying tendency to clash with the adoring and easy virtue categories. In general the girls he went for were vain and shallow and easily impressed by his looks, a good display of manliness or whatever trinkets he gave them,   
  
At the age of 14 he'd left the orphanage for good, with only a strange tattoo on his wrist applied by a wizened old man he had never seen before and who he never saw again, to show for his time spent there. Resentful of having to work all day in order to hand his money over to a place that didn't even feed him right, he decided to strike out on his own.   
  
Even at 14 he was rapidly approaching 6 ft, and was filling out well, although that was mostly down to the nourishment he'd gotten from pilfering food on his way home to the dormitories. He had justified the stealing on the grounds that he was almost starving, and reckoned his mother, rest her soul, would forgive him. But, once free from the orphanage, his life from that moment on was not something that would have made her proud.   
  
At first he did what he had to, to survive, but as he got older, and made a name for himself on the streets, he did what he had to do to prosper. Dubious transactions, shady deals, a little muscle work, all resulted in good pay, nights carousing with cohorts and loose women, not to mention the occasional scrape with the law. It all had gone pretty smoothly for a while, until one particularly ill advised job, which left him beating a hasty retreat out of Egypt for a while.   
  
He headed into Algeria, got a job as a driver, learned a smattering of French and dallied with a French girl, serving there as a ladies maid with a wealthy diplomat's family from Paris. When they headed home, as the Great War was over, he decided to follow, and see a little of Europe, Paris in particular.   
  
He never did see the maid again. When he arrived in Paris, he met and fell for the first American girl he had encountered since leaving the States 11 years previously.   
  
She was heaven sent, blonde, blue eyed, voluptuous and of easy virtue, from a wealthy family and slumming it in Paris with some colourful artist friends of hers, bohemians all. He'd struck pay dirt.   
  
She delighted in his background and took him under her wing, paying for his wardrobe, his keep, and taking him to all the fashionable places and promenading him. And to repay her, he had to sleep with her, frequently. Oh the humanity.   
  
Back then, he thought it was love. He thought she was a class act, a real lady, but brother, now that he thought back on it, how wrong he was. Growing up in the gutter obviously warped your perceptions about things like, what constituted class. She was no lady and what she had wasn't class, just money and flash, and he'd been dazzled by her and it.   
  
Evelyn's hair tickled his chin. No, a real lady, with real class, took quite a different form.   
  
It took him quite a long while to realise, that far from being besotted with him, he just fit his American flame's current slumming fashion for low class guys with shady backgrounds. He was an accessory, like her purse or her shoes.   
  
It took him an embarrassingly long while in fact.  
  
Even when she started to cool on him, he didn't get the hint, but then subtlety was not his forte. It wasn't until she started to show some serious interest in a young French soldier, a decorated captain from the war, that he sat up and took notice.  
  
His male pride wounded at the attention she was giving to this urbane, and sophisticated man who was everything he was not, he reacted as he always did, around women, and showed off. Just like the girls he had tried to impress back in Chicago, and almost every woman since, he flexed his proverbial muscle, flashed them a grin and puffed out his chest to show them just what a manly man they had. In this case it took the form of proving that he was as brave a man as the French soldier, and returned to her having joined the French Foreign Legion.   
  
Her reaction had been something like "Nice uniform." Before she and her cohorts began their snickering.   
  
Up to that point it had never once occurred to him, that it wasn't the fact that he was a brave soldier that she found attractive. In the end it took one of their mutual bohemian friends to point out to him that the soldiers full name was Captain Jean Michel Girard, Compte de Bougonville.   
  
The man was a nobleman, and while America remained steadfastly against such trappings of aristocracy, there was simply nothing more fashionable for a well born American girl to get than a title.   
  
He was history. And worse, he was in the army. He had signed the articles and was in the Legion for a full tour. 3 years.   
  
Running away was not an option. He had no money to run with, and deserters pictures were posted all over France. The French shot deserters from the Legion, they were very good at that. They had had lots of practice at it during the War.   
  
With no money, and no girl. There seemed little option, so, like many a man in the Legion before him, he left for Marseille, vowing never to get involved with a woman again, and joined his regiment. They sailed for Libya soon after.   
  
He served with them a year, before rising to the exalted rank of corporal, promoted for saving his new friend Beni's butt from irate Bedouins when, unbeknownst to the Colonel, the little weasel had tried to sneak a peak at the ladies of a local sheikh's household. Then he proved himself as a soldier during a brutal raid on a fort by a local Tuareg tribe. His colonel had given him a field commission to lieutenant as half their officers had perished.   
  
The officers uniform had proven to be a boon with the ladies, but with pride wounded rather than heart broken, he proved as good as his word, and honed his skills at making sure he was always in control of the situation, cultivating a "women, they're all the same" chip on his shoulder, and a "take me as I am lady, 'cause you ain't gonna change me" attitude.   
  
His tour was almost up when, suddenly the rumour started about the lost city, and the Colonel approached them with a map that had come into his possession. The stories of the mountains of gold in Hamanaptra, were well told even in the taverns of the countries surrounding Egypt, and it didn't take long for the men to be convinced by their Colonel. With only a couple of months left, he thought it might be a good idea to leave the service with a little more than just a legionnaires pay to his name, and went along with it.   
  
And so it had all begun. And now finally, 3 years later, it was over.   
  
Evelyn started to mooch again in his arms. Well maybe not completely over, he amended. She shifted a little and her head tilted back a bit. He lowered his right arm so that her head rested in the crook of his arm and chest, and had a clear view of her sleeping face.  
  
Bathed in the glow of the moonlight, he wondered did she realise how beautiful she was. At first he had thought her merely pretty, but with every passing day he came to see how short sighted he was.   
  
It was one of several lessons he'd learned on this particular journey. Lessons to live by Rick, he thought to himself. First, like the books she catalogues, you should never ever judge a librarian by her cover.   
  
This of course would be closely followed by lesson two never ever let the aforementioned librarian open the big black metal book with the symbols of death on it's cover.   
  
Lesson three? Well that was still in progress, and he may need to do some serious study in order to see whether he could pass the course. He wondered was there a book on how to stop being a bum and win the heart of a girl who was far too good for you? He smiled to himself, just his luck that the only trained librarian in Egypt was the one person he couldn't ask.   
  
His smile faded a little, as the dilemma he faced came a little more seriously home to him.   
Right now, there were only three things in the world of which he was absolutely certain. One, that every muscle in his body was either bruised or aching. Two, that he was a poorly educated street smart, opportunist with a good aim, no family to speak of, no friends in the proper sense of the word, and a lousy credit rating. And three, he was totally and utterly in love with the well brought up, respectable girl that was currently fast asleep in his arms.   
  
Number one would have to be attended to before he seized up completely, but it was numbers two and three that presented him with his current dilemma.   
  
They were worlds apart. She was 10 times smarter than he was, moral, principled and expectant of a certain standard of behaviour from those around her. Then there was the fact that she was of a certain social standing and used to a certain kind of lifestyle.  
  
He on the other hand was all the thing he had listed before, and more.   
  
Her smarts didn't phase him at all, in fact he got a kick out of hearing her tell him things. Despite everything, he'd quite liked school when he was a kid, and she was, despite her brothers comments, pretty interesting to listen to. She'd certainly be the prettiest teacher he ever had.   
  
And who knows, he grinned, maybe he could teach her a thing or two as well.  
  
His own harmless, silent, slightly lewd comment, gave him pause and managed neatly to bring him to the whole 'moral, principled, expectant of a certain standard of behaviour thing...'. This is where things really got bumpy.   
  
As he had already reminded himself, she was a real lady, and he'd have to buck up his behaviour. The only problem was that he wasn't entirely sure what the right behaviour was.   
  
Etiquette, sure as shi....he paused....that is, etiquette was not a strong suit of his. Neither was delicacy or tact, for that matter. His stunningly gallant comment, an hour or so back at Hamanaptra, about 'not leaving empty handed', had earned him his first real kiss from her, and to be honest had stunned no one more than he. It was a spur of the moment, didn't think about it, reaction comment, straight from the heart.   
  
Unfortunately for him, him saying the perfect thing at the perfect moment occurred oh say once every millennia or so, and speaking straight from the heart was even scarier than seeing a tidal wave of sand with a grinning face chasing you. The real him, around a girl like her, was the bumbling stumbling fool who had tried to present her with a gift of digging tools. He shook his head remembering his god awful awkwardness. She had seemed pleased, and had certainly smiled at him, which had pleased him in turn, but still, mostly he remembered feeling like an idiot.   
  
Suave and sophisticated just weren't his thing, he didn't have the words. Someone like Jonathan, even half soused would beat him hands down there. It was quite possible then, that in private he would make a fool of himself with her, and in public prove an embarrassment.   
  
In public....that thought brought him to the other quandary he had. Her social standing. Well not social standing exactly. Evelyn's behaviour had shown from the start that class didn't mean that much to her. She judged on a person's character and behaviour and not their dress or bank balance, treating them all with decency and respect, unless or until their behaviour warranted otherwise. Even our late stinky warden friend with his roving eye and hands was treated politely.   
  
No, it was more to do with the social standing in which she had grown up. She was accustomed to a certain kind of life. No matter what way you looked at it, she was, despite her willingness to put up with discomfort on trips like this, a woman used to a half decent lifestyle. Jonathan had informed him that their father had left them a house in London, and the one here in Cairo, and they each received an annual stipend of £500.00 per annum from the trust he and their mother had left. It may have been modest, but it was comfortable and respectable.   
  
He on the other hand had spent much of the last quarter of his life, with no fixed abode, living hand to mouth, running from the law, and continuously renewing first name acquaintances with several rats in the gutters of Cairo where he would on occasion spend the night.  
  
He had no money. So never mind keeping her in the manner to which she was accustomed, how was he even supposed to take her out, for a nice meal? He blinked.   
  
Where, was he supposed to take her for a nice meal?! Nearly every well known place in Cairo had blackballed him years ago!!!   
  
He sighed again. Face it O'Connell, he thought miserably. You're not good enough for her.   
  
"This is never going to work." He spoke out loud without thinking.   
  
She shifted again, her arms tightening their grip around his waist, and she took a deep breath, before murmuring in a matter of fact tone,  
  
"Will work...just have to dig 'n the right place." And settling back down to sleep. He grinned, and tried not to laugh, knowing the rapid movement of his chest would wake her up.   
  
Even in her sleep she was dreaming of her work. It was what she lived for, what she loved. There were no nightmares of Imhotep, not even the horror she'd seen and experienced could overwhelm her love for her work and this place. His face grew reflective, maybe, that might be true of bad experiences and some 'one' she loved too.   
  
With this as food for thought, he glanced once more up at the escarpment and, on seeing again that there was no one there, he pondered on that food over the coming hours.   
  
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	5. Treasures Made And Found

Disclaimer:  
Sadly, I do not own any of the characters in this story except the ones you've never heard of. Which is quite unfortunate really, as if I owned the ones you had heard of, I would probably be quite wealthy and could sit on some beach all day writing this kind of thing. Which, come to think of it, from your perspective is probably something of a relief.   
  
Undoubtedly some small liberty taking with history, ancient mythology, the bible (yes I know some people would regard that as the same thing), and with a take on some characters history that may clash a little with the novels but not (I hope) with the movies. Apologies to those any of that might annoy. But then this is only a story.  
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The Mummy's Shadow  
Chapter Five  
  
'Treasures Made & Found'  
  
  
  
  
Egypt, 1068 B.C.  
  
  
"With all due respect my brother," Akehton said incredulously from his chariot as their caravan moved across the desert just beyond the Nile delta, with Thebes still 3 days away. "You're not serious!"  
  
"Perfectly, my brother." Rameses replied, an amused look on his face as he handed the reins of his golden chariot to his driver.   
  
"But you can't give him to her!" his younger brother protested "He's a savage! You heard what Sekhnet said!"   
  
"You must learn to listen more, Akehton," Rameses cautioned him "It behoves a Prince well to truly hear what is being said. What Sekhnet said was that it was reported that the tribes to the north were savage. Does he behave like a savage to you?"   
  
"Well....no...but still!" Akehton protested from weaker ground. "You can't give him to Nefertiri as a gift."  
  
"You have yet to give me one good reason why I may not, brother." Rameses "We have seen these last weeks how quickly he learns, how hard he tries. He is quick of wit and strong of body. Would he not make the perfect bodyguard for our sister? He is perfectly suited for it, striking, strong, fast, intelligent and a quick study." He mused. "Beyond Sekhnet's lessons with him, I have watched him this past while. He was watching the Medjai as they train, watching and mimicking their movements, the way they wield their weaponry."  
  
"My brother, that does not ease my concerns!!!" Akehton snapped.   
  
"He has sworn to my service, Akehton." His brother brushed some dust off his skin. "You have seen his actions while honour bound. He has made great efforts. He will serve loyally."  
  
"But, bodyguards have always traditionally been chosen from the Medjai, or at the very least from the most trusted of the army!" Akehton shoved the reins of the chariot at his own driver, and grasped the side rail of the vehicle to face his brother.   
  
"In case you haven't noticed, my most favoured brother, the army has, for the past two hundred years or so been mostly made up of Nubian, Hittite and Libyan mercenaries. Tell me, which do you think the more worthy of trust? The man who swears allegiance for gold? Or the man who does so out of a pledge of honour?" Rameses levelled the rhetorical question at his wiry brother.. "Besides," he smiled. "Traditions only become so, because someone took that initial step."  
  
Akehton stared at him for a long moment. "I don't know whether you're a fool or a genius. You will either be the greatest Pharaoh Egypt has ever had or you'll be dead within a week."  
  
Rameses chuckled "Only the Gods can say, my brother." He leaned out towards his brother's chariot "And of course when I'm Pharaoh, I'll be one, so I'll tell you then."   
  
Akehton sighed, Rameses was as easy to dissuade from a course of action as the Nile was from flooding her banks. Although he had to admit, in general, both turned out to be beneficial in the long run. "She is our sister, Rameses." He tried once more "Born to the royal blood, destined to be your wife and Queen of Egypt, does it not concern you that you will be putting her with one who, apart from the fact that he has not even proven himself loyal, does not know our ways. She could be offended, impugned even compromised!"  
  
Rameses laughed. "Akehton, you do me good. You know our sister well, you know she is no wilting lily of the Nile, and you know it is one of the things I love best about her. Nefertiri will be well capable of meting out punishment for offences received, even with her own hands."   
  
"Well at least have him castrated!" Akehton insisted. The Celt had cleaned up well and revealed himself to be both young and handsome in a strange foreign way. His sister was beautiful. Why place temptation in either path.   
  
Rameses response was a question. "Do you not trust Isephet?" he referred to his brother's beloved wife.   
  
"More than anyone in the world!" Akehton retorted hotly.   
  
"Would you trust her with him?" his brother asked mildly.  
  
Akehton didn't hesitate. "Yes! Absolutely!"  
  
Rameses nodded "As I trust Nefertiri. Therefore there is no need to make him a eunuch. Besides it dulls a man's edge, and would make him a blunt instrument."  
  
He looked across once more at his younger brother, a smaller, thinner version of himself and saw his shoulders slumped unhappily.   
  
He sighed. "Akehton,, you must trust me. There is something about this man, something that makes me feel this is right. It's as if something or someone, the Gods perhaps, is telling me so, here and here." He pointed to his gut and head. "But, if you mistrust my judgement, and it makes you feel better, Sekhnet, is continuing to teach him the ways of our people and the correct form of behaviour. He will tell me when we reach Thebes whether Keeahn will make a suitable protector for our sister."  
  
  
  
Egypt, 1926.  
  
"Ow....ow...ow...ow...OW!" Rick O'Connell, Legionnaire, slayer of 3,000 year old mummies and rescuers of librarians in distress, groaned as he inched his leg over the now seated camels back and slowly slid down it's left side to the ground with the guiding hands of Evelyn helping him. Normally he would more than welcome her touch, but right now every inch of him was either numb or sore, and as decency dictated that she couldn't have her hands on the part of him that was numb from the camel ride, her hands were resting on bits of him that he'd rather they weren't.   
  
"Oooh..." she winced in sympathy for him. "Are you alright?"  
  
Aching, he considered a quippy response to a question whose answer was patently obvious, but on seeing her solicitous face and concerned eyes, he just smiled, a warm glow spreading over him, and replied. "I've been better."  
  
In the bright sunlight of the morning, her eyes roved over his battered face and clothes, seeing the welts and bruises beginning to show on his face, and knew his body must be in similar shape. "You poor thing." She crooned, released his arm, to his great relief, and reached up to delicately touch his face.  
  
Or so she planned, unfortunately her fingers swept over a deep graze on his chin and he gave out a swift hiss and pulled his head away.  
  
"Oh!!" she half pulled her hand away wincing this time at her own clumsiness. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."   
To her relief he smiled at her, amused and affectionate, and she returned the smile, shyly. "Now you know why I didn't pursue a career in medicine." She mocked herself.   
  
He reached up, very slowly, and grasped the fingers of her hand that were still poised in mid air with his own. "I'm fine," he assured her "and you can doctor me any time you like."  
  
She blushed, but with a surge of the beginnings of a new found confidence in herself that had not previously existed, she tipped at his nose.  
  
"That's not broken is it?" she asked, knowing full well from his nose play with her yesterday, that it wasn't. Her finger still on the end of his nose, he shook his head, grinning, enjoying her playfulness around him. And she leaned forward and kissed it's tip, before moving off around the back of the camel quickly, to it's far side.  
  
"Hey," he called after her, and pointed at his lips "Neither are these you know!"   
  
She came to a screeching halt, and stood there, her eyes wide. For a moment he thought she was going to come back, then, when she didn't move, there was a fleeting moment of worry that maybe somehow, in a way that totally escaped him, he had overstepped the mark with his flip comment. But, slowly, her eyes fixed on the camel's rear end, she turned 180 degrees, and he realised that whatever had stopped her in her tracks, it wasn't, unfortunately, the thought of kissing him.   
  
With great effort he pushed himself upright from his leaning position against the body of the camel on the far side from her. "What is it?" he asked loudly, concerned. His question, was met by silence from her, but attracted Jonathan, who was in the process of removing some blankets from the camel he'd been riding, and which now sat placidly just beyond Evelyn.   
  
"What's the matter, Evy?" Jonathan walked towards her, wrinkling his nose as he threw the camel smelling blankets over his shoulder. He was within two steps of her, when he came to the same shuddering stop, his eyes not so much wide as bugging out of his head.   
  
On the far side of the camel, unable to see what they were seeing, O'Connell, looked back and forth from one to the other, waiting.   
  
"What? What is it?.....Hello? Excuse me?" he sang in an ever so polite, sing song voice. As one, the brother and sister, eyes still wide raised their heads and looked at him, their eyes glazed. "Hi," he smiled "I was just wondering if you might, if it's not too much trouble that is ...." As he was in mid sentence Evelyn's hand plunged forward, flipping back the lid of a leather saddle bag, and then he heard a sound that was half the scrape of metal against metal, and half jingling, as she pulled her hand back out and up above the horizon of the camels back so he could see.   
  
In that hand she held the curved gold handle of a knife sheathed in a scabbard that looked like solid gold and was decorated in elaborate fashion with more precious stones than he had ever seen in one place in his life.   
  
His eyes did an impression of theirs. "...what the hell...." He finished.  
  
With a sudden lunge, Jonathan brushed past his sister and dove two hands towards the same place she had extracted the knife from, with a mighty heave, he pulled them back, and in them was what could only be described as a mess of treasure.   
  
Gold, jewels, and coins, boxes, statues and other objets d'art made of gold and jewels twinkled in the sun, coins slipping through his fingers to the sand below.   
  
"Holy...." Rick began, but stopped remembering Evelyn's presence. Adrenaline pumping again, and momentarily forgetful of his condition, he hobbled around the camel to join them. "Mary, mother of God." He breathed on seeing the full contents of the large saddle bags.   
  
"How...how...umm...how..." Jonathan gabbled, managing to drag his eyes off the hoard he held in his hands, to look at his American companion. Rick shook his head not knowing the answer to Jonathan's fully unexpressed but quite clear question. Then it hit him.   
  
"Beni." He said softly, confidently. Evelyn looked at him, a picture of the unfortunate weasel-like little man, they had had to leave entombed in Hamunaptra, popped into her head. "It must have been his 'reward' for helping ol' Imhotep. He must have been planning to beat it with this little lot."  
  
Jonathan breathed out loudly, his face becoming a picture of ecstasy as he looked back at the treasure. "God bless his little red fez."   
  
"Yes." Evelyn said softly, her eyes drifting back towards the direction they had come. "Yes, indeed."   
  
Rick saw the tone in her voice and the look in her eyes,   
  
"Hey." he touched her lightly on the shoulder trying to make her feel better. Her smile of acknowledgement was weak, her voice remote.  
  
"I told him, that people like him always got their comeuppance. I'm just not sure anyone deserves that kind of comeuppance."   
  
Rick was less sure, but for her sake, nodded in silence. She took a deep breath, trying to put the unpleasant thought of being buried alive from her head, stuck the knife back in the saddle bags, before grabbing hold of the blankets Jonathan had over his shoulder and sliding them off him from behind.   
  
"I'll go and set up the shelter so you can get some sleep." She said to Rick determinedly, then smiled. "You keep an eye on my big brother. Things like these have a habit of...being borrowed, when he is around."   
  
"Hey!" Jonathan said indignantly, but didn't argue. Rick chuckled, missing the look she gave him.   
  
"I'm hoping the two of you might cancel each other out." She said lightly, walking away to find some place to hang the blankets so they would provide some shelter from the rapidly approaching noon sun. It took a moment for the words to sink in.  
  
"Hey!" he called after her in the same indignant tone as her brother. Her mischievous laughter rang out over the air like spring water over stones.   
  
  
  
He'd only wanted to sleep for 2 or 3 hours at the most, knowing that they had to get moving. A further search of all the bags on the camels revealed what he had feared. There was no food and worse, far worse, no water.   
  
But Evelyn and Jonathan had left him sleeping in the shade of the awning they had set up by tying the blankets together and draping them between the high saddles of the seated camels. When he finally awoke half a day had passed by, and evening was setting on again.  
  
Normally, that would have been the way they travelled, resting by day, moving on at night. But the lack of water left him concerned, especially for Evelyn.  
  
He and Jonathan, had been out here less time than she. They had refreshed themselves for the onslaught of rescuing her at Havlock's airbase, and had brought water with them. Water which of course had gotten buried in the plane crash.   
  
Evelyn on the other hand had been taken the night previous to that again, and had not had a drink since they had left the hotel at Fort Brydon to go to the Museum to track down the book of Amon-Ra. 3 days without water, could prove deadly in this heat, shelter or no, and she was entering her third day. Even taking into account what progress they had made, they had had almost 2 full days ride to go before they reached the Nile.   
  
That was before he had slept the day away, now that progress was wiped out, and time was beginning to run against them. He'd surprised them by the force of his orders about getting moving, yelling at Jonathan to stop cataloguing every piece in the saddle bags and get them back on the camels.   
  
They had said nothing, assuming he was probably sore and testy and not a good 'morning' person, and he had said nothing either. There was no use in worrying them with his worries. But, already he could see Evelyn beginning to wilt, her normally lively step becoming more of a forced slog as she moved around dismantling the awning so they could put the blankets back on the camels.   
  
He stopped her.   
  
"Sit." He told her, pushing her down in the shade of one of the camels. "I'll do that."  
  
"But, you're hurt!" she protested.   
  
"I'm fine." He insisted, then groaned as she sprang back up from the ground.   
  
"And so am I!" she replied, suddenly feeling very tetchy from the heat and the constant dry rasp of her throat. "What do you think that just because I required 'rescuing'," she emphasised with derisory vehemence "that I'm no longer capable of pulling my weight, of doing my share, that I'm some kind of weak ninny who...."  
  
He grasped her by the arms. "Evelyn." His voice was determined. "You know that's not the case. I'm asking you, please. Sit." Her chin was raised, and her eyes were steely. "Please," he repeated. "For me." And he took advantage of their closeness to kiss her softly on the lips. Lips that were already parched from lack of moisture.   
  
That threw her. "Alright," she said as grudgingly as she could considering her eyes were now as soft as a puppies "But only because you asked politely."   
  
"Thank you," he smiled, and was favoured with a small smile in return as she sat in the shade again. "Jonathan," he said turning around, feeling as stiff as a board. "Have you got those saddle bags up yet?"   
  
His back turned to them, Jonathan grunted with effort. "I'm trying! But they're dashed weighty! And my arm is giving me gyp." Indicating the gash in his upper arm where Rick had neatly excised a scarab that was intent on working it's way towards Jonathan's skull.   
  
"I notice you didn't have any trouble getting them off." Rick responded smoothly, trying to keep the tone jovial, while taking a look at his companions arm, which looked a little too red to him, something else to worry about. "And I also notice you're not putting them back on our camel."  
  
Jonathan coughed, and smiled at Rick as he arrived by his side. "Yes, well....If you must know I felt sorry for the poor thing, what with having to carry both you and Evy, and the bags..."  
  
"And you thought it might be best if, you spared it the extra weight and took it with you?" Rick said brightly.   
  
"Spot on, old man." Jonathan breezed "Always been a bit of a humanitarian animal lover type me."   
  
"Funny," Rick said grabbing hold of one side of the bags and grunting with effort and pain as he helped Jonathan hoist them onto his camel. "I could've sworn you called them disgusting smelly fleabags, before."   
  
"Yes..." Jonathan scratched his head, "There was that of course...but then you know," he patted the rump of his ride affectionately "I do find they rather have a tendency to grow on one."   
  
Rick quirked a smile at him, amused.   
  
"Yeah...it's funny how things that irritate the hell out of you at first, can do that." He said meaningfully to his travelling companion, before walking back towards Evelyn and their mount, a grin on his face and Jonathan's glare on his back.  
  
  
  
  



	6. Gathering Clouds

Chapter Six  
Gathering Clouds  
  
Egypt, 1068 B.C.  
  
Keeahn, sat on a small embankment, 200 yards or so beyond the camps guarded perimeter, watching the vast wheel of the sun as it continued it's final descent to the horizon. He'd watched it every evening since they'd taken him from the labour gang. He could never get over how big the sun was here, and once again his attention was fixed upon it.   
  
At home the sun shone like a torch in the sky, here it was more like a Bealtaine bonfire. It would be pitch dark soon, he knew. Blazing sun, then out came the moon and the stars. At home the evenings stretched on forever in the summer, with ever changing subtle shades of twilight before finally night settled on the countryside. Here it jumped out at you, the sun, huge as it was, swallowed quickly like a salmon swallows a worm.   
  
It was one of the many strange things about this place, how bright and hot one minute and so cold and dark the next. Again, for more times than he cared to count, he wished he was at home at the hearth fires of his clann.   
  
A tiny movement of loose sand tickled his lower thighs, and he tugged at the new kilt he wore. The clothes they had given him were clean and light and comfortable, perfect for the hot days. But, he felt uncomfortably exposed by their sheerness and their length. Men, and indeed women, here did not leave much to the imagination, his startled stares at earned him several beatings back in the city port. Now he was dressed similarly to many of those he had seen. A black kilt with gold motifs he did not recognise, good strong leather sandals, a light robe made of the same material as the kilt, what he learned was called 'linen', and a heavier black wool one, which sat on the ground behind him.   
  
For the millionth time since it happened, he ran his hand almost absently over the back of his hair to the now naked neck exposed to the air for the first time since he was a babe, and done so in the most embarrassing experience of his life.   
  
He had been taken and bathed like a child by full grown men. He was shaved, not just of his whiskers but all over, despite his protestations. The whole process had been overseen by the small bald man he had learned was called Sekhnet. A priest of some sort. He had only just barely escaped with his head of hair intact. He had kicked and struggled when they had approached him with a shears to turn him as bald as they.   
  
Sekhnet had explained that it was all being done so that he would be more comfortable, that there were insects here that would enjoy the home he was inadvertently providing for them, and that he would most certainly be cooler without his long russet hair. The idea of the insects had worried him and given him pause, but in the end he had refused point blank to let them cut it all off. After a while the priest had relented, thinking that maybe the fair skin of his head would fair better under cover than exposed. Still he insisted on having it trimmed, as no one with such a savage haircut would be allowed in the palace.   
  
For 27 days and nights now, almost 3 weeks, by these peoples 10 days a week reckoning, he had been under the watchful eye of the vigilant Sekhnet, who worked tirelessly with him on a range of topics. He was a fast learner by nature and already he felt his grasp of the language had improved consderably. Sekhnet had combined language learning with teaching him about the places he would see, the people he would encounter, how he must act around them, and why.   
  
He had learned much of this strange world he now inhabited. He had learned that the man whose servant he now was, was the eldest son of the High King of this place. Indeed the only King. And this place, this country was huge, far greater a kingdom than he had ever imagined. That it was dotted with great cities and great monuments built by great kings so that they might be remembered. He was told he would see wonders the like of which he would have never seen. He was told that he would see wealth beyond his wildest imaginings and he was told he would see a Living God, a bridge between heaven and earth.   
  
He kept his council on all this. Not least the last part.   
  
His father had taught him, as had the Druids, that Gods and Men did not dwell together, at least not physically. They were part of the air, the earth, the sky, the sun, the trees, rivers, lochs and mountains. They granted their blessings and occasionally appeared in mortal form, but they never dwelled as one. Once early on in the life of mankind they had dwelled and nothing but trouble had come of it. Now they lived beyond the sea, dreaming of the humans while the humans dreamed of them.   
  
Still, his Gods weren't their Gods, so maybe what Sekhnet said was true. The idea of a Living God both intrigued and confused him. After all how could he be a God if he bled and died at the hands of a mere man? And more, how could this man, his master, be not a God now, and yet a God after he was King? It did not make sense, but then, the pragmatic part of him pointed out, neither did raising these points, not when your aim was getting your freedom.   
  
In the approaching brief twilight, Keeahn could see in the distance a billowing cloud of red gold dust blossoming up from the desert ground. He'd been warned of many of the dangers of the desert apart from the obvious ones of sun, heat and lack of water. There were the huge black insect like creatures, scorpions, that had a bite like fire when they struck with their tail. The huge spiders, the likes and size of which he had never seen, and which could kill a man. And the snakes. Far different from the few small harmless dull grass snakes of home, these were often vividly coloured and deadly. The very idea of them made him feel uncomfortable sitting there.   
  
But, with the cloud in the distance, it was of the sand storms he currently thought.   
  
His tuath, the land of his father, had been a coastal one and he had seen huge storms blow across the massive ocean it bordered. Storms that shook the very earth. He had watched as a child as men in their fishing currachs were swept out to sea by sudden gales, despite all the best efforts of their kinsmen to save them. He never once thought back then, safe on the land, that the earth too could provide a similar threat.   
  
Sekhnet had described in detail the awesome effects of a storm where sand not rain fell and whipped around you, blinding, choking and burying you. A storm that could rise and boil out of nothing, blue skies and clear air one minute and a few minutes later a wall of blasting sand. He shuddered at the thoughts of being buried out here in this wasteland and his longing for home grew, even as he watched the distant cloud of dust.   
  
Reaching down to where he sat, he took up a handful of the sand, and ran it through his fingers. Even the texture of the sand compared to the beaches of his home felt different, the forces of water and wind providing differing effects. And still, if you looked at the giant mounds of sand through which they passed you could see the eddys and waves of the sea or loch as clearly as if it were water and not the that wind blew over it. Different but the same.   
  
While he had been working, slaving in the city port, his mind had been occupied. The work, the whips of the guards, the huge pyramid monuments beyond the city and the teeming mass of existence around him. With all that around him, it had been easier there not to think of home and family. But out here, in this wasteland that seemed to hold nothing but death at every corner, everything here, either through it's similarities or differences was almost designed to make you think of home.   
  
He tried to work out how long he had been gone.   
  
They had left on their trading mission to the Celtaigh tribes of Bretagne, before moving further south along the coastline, trading their furs and artworks, and arranging deals for shipments of lumber and stone. In one port in Galacia they had come across a strangely shaped ship, which, the harbour master had told them had come from the dark land beyond the sea at the southernmost tip of that land.   
  
Why it was named the dark land was soon abundantly clear. While the men of Galacia were often dark of countenance and generally sallow skinned compared to the more northerly Celtaigh, the men of this ship were darker even than they. Deep brown skin the colour of bark, jet black hair, dark eyes and hawkish noses they were well dressed in distinctive flowing black and white robes. They were well armed too, with ornately decorated swords, which were first straight and then curved like a druid's sickle.   
  
They had not participated in the sporting events organised by the host tribe for the conclave of traders there, but had watched from the sidelines as he and his foster brother Aengus had competed for the honour of their tribe. He had been particularly successful, winning the footraces and the spear toss, and showing well in the hand to hand combat. He only wished he had his horse to compete with the local tribesmen, he fancied his mare, Gaire Laidir, against any of the animals there. Still, his clann had been proud of him that night, and he had celebrated mightily supping deeply from the stock of uisce beatha they had brought with them, and which was their contribution to the feast.   
  
While he had celebrated, his father struck a deal with the dark men. Only one of their number spoke their language, and he was an amiable old fellow with a shock of white beard which contrasted startlingly with his dark skin. He sat with his father and discussed their respective lands. They had even struck a bargain, gold ore in exchange for the hard woods that grew in the forests beside their Rath. Maps were exchanged. His father, Concobhair, had told him as they struck out at last for home, some 3 moons after they had sailed, that the Ri, who had been desirous of a new gold torc to show his increasing prosperity, would be more than pleased with the deal.  
  
They were only out of sight of the port, and he was struggling from the after effects of the drink, when they spotted the dark men's sail nearby. Their ship was large with a prow you could slice beef on. They sailed closer and his father had gone forward to wave them on their way and wish them good health home.  
  
He'd received a long shafted white fletched arrow in his chest for his pains.   
  
The next thing he had known the men in Black and White were on top of them, their sharp prow slicing through the timbers of their boat and sending them flying. In trying to reach his father he lost his balance and cracked his head on the side rail. His limbs had failed him and then there was nothing but the brief sound of battle cries, the clash of weapons and darkness.  
  
When he awoke, he found his limbs still failed him, but after a moment he realised it was due to the fetters around them. He and two of his shipmates had been taken, one was Aengus the other Aengus's half brother Fergus, alongside them in the hold was the precious cargo they had worked so hard to collect. The others of their clann, Aengus and Fergus had told him, were dead, his father included. Before he could begin to keen for their loss, the white haired leader of the dark men had come down, all trace of friendliness long gone, and told them in harsh tones that they were still alive only because they were young and strong and fair and would fetch a good price at the slave markets, either because of their size or their skin.   
  
It was hard to tell how many days went by, locked in the hold of the ship, 4 maybe 5. But they reached some port and the men came to take them away to be sold, or rather they took Aengus and Fergus, but left him. He waited for his turn, all that day and into the next, but the next thing he knew he felt the ship move and they were leaving port again.   
  
When they came to bring him his food he tried to ask them why he had been left, they would not or could not answer him, and the leader never came near him again. He estimated, as best he could, that a further 4 days later they docked and finally he was dragged out into the light of day into a small town made up of strange square stone houses, that seemed exclusively set up as a trading post for slavers, as most of those stone houses, were holding quarters for the slaves.   
  
He was bought by the darkest man he had ever seen. So dark as to be almost jet black His teeth shone like polished white marble in his neatly whiskered face, his white robe and cape were flecked with gold and the purse of gold he pulled out for his purchase was immense. His retinue was large and armed to the teeth, as if they would have to escort a lot of unruly slaves, though in the end he had been the man's only purchase.   
  
They had stripped him of his woollen jerkin, and draped him in a ragged cloth cape, then tethered him to the back of a huge pale brown animal that seemed to carry a mountain on it's back and smelled like the pigsties of the Rath after Caomhin Mac Art had failed to clean them out for the fifth day running.   
  
Tethered to this mountainous creature he know knew as a 'camel', he got his first real taste of the hot burning sun and had spent the first two nights of this life in agony as his uncovered head felt like it would explode.   
  
Knowing the fate of useless slaves, he had dragged himself along, but he could hardly stand, let alone walk by the end of the third day due to the pounding in his head. He'd collapsed, just as the sun started to set, convinced it would the last sunset he would ever see.   
  
But strangely they had not left him, they had placed a head dress on his head and put him on top of the camel and covered him up. He lost track of time then, and once he was well enough they had him walking again. His woollen trousers were soaked with sweat every day, and his feet swollen and blistered by the long trek across the sand and stones.   
  
3 days of walking later and on the crest of a small hill of sand he saw the biggest city he had ever seen in his life. Giza. There, he wasn't so much sold as handed over to another man, who placed him in the labour gang. His clothes were taken away and he was handed the uniform of the slaves the leather skirt, the hard sandals and a head dress that was too small for him.  
  
He'd been there for 2 more waxing and wanings of the moon, his hair lightening, his skin burning gradually turning brown under the sun, but still a pale shadow compared to those about him.   
  
All told he estimated that he had left home maybe 7 moons ago.   
  
They would be just about getting ready for the Samhain festival, and the tribes would gather for the celebration. His mother and sisters would finish the new clothes for the family to wear and his brothers would bring in the best of their crops and cattle for the feast, only neither he nor his father would be there with them. His brothers were young, and while his mother could tear any man to pieces with words that a trained file or bard would be hard pressed to use as well, there would be no full man to protect the family. Still, the land they owned was prosperous and the Ri, would see them safe, as was traditional amongst the clan for the families who lost members on missions for the tuath.. And there were many this time.   
  
He wished they knew he was alive at least.   
  
His depression deepened, and he looked out once again at the desert around him. Even if he was the sort to break his word and dishonour himself, where would he go from here? He would not last 3 days alone out here. But it was a moot point, as he would not dishonour himself by breaking his bargain. His father, with the Gods now, would not greet him kindly the day he arrived, if he broke his bargain with this Prince Rameses just to gain his own freedom.   
  
He shivered a little as the last rays of the sun disappeared beneath the horizon and the first cold of the desert evening set in. He reached behind him and pulled the woollen robe towards him, shaking it out well as he had been taught, and placing his arms through. He stood as he did so, and as he pulled the robe up onto his shoulders, he caught sight of the cloud of dust again. It was closer than before, much much closer.  
  
In fact it seemed to be travelling towards him. A gust of wind blew at him, and he realised then that the wind was blowing in a different direction from the destination of the cloud. No mere gust or eddy could maintain such a straight line. He knelt quickly and placed his hand on a flat piece of sun baked earth.   
  
He felt the tremors immediately, and a moment later recognised the distinctive pattern. Hoof beats. Horses, lots of them. He looked at the ever growing cloud again. In this climate it was unlikely that horses roamed free in packs. Camels maybe? But then the pattern didn't feel right, it was too heavy and rapid, not the padded lope of the desert animals. No. It was horses. And that meant they were being ridden.   
  
He looked behind him at the encampment, he was not being watched, they knew he couldn't leave without perishing, and the Prince seemed to trust him enough not to have him followed. Something he appreciated. It was quiet and peaceful and the cooking fires and talk of the men drifted on the breeze. While perimeters had been set up at every stage along their journey, with each passing day, they became more and more relaxed and at ease. Careless. He could see the two guards nearest to him, talking casually together.   
  
He would seem foolish if he ran back yelling about the approaching cloud and it turned out to be nothing. And so he hesitated, and turned back to check again.   
  
When the riders burst out of the cloud, he suddenly realised that his depth perception had been distorted by the size and shape of the cloud and the heat haze rising up from the still baking ground. They were a lot closer than they appeared. Close enough that his hesitation could prove costly. He saw the first glint of metal and he ran.   
  
The 2 Medjai guards at the perimeter, having lost a bet with the 2 army regulars who would normally be standing watch and were now unfortunately taking their watch for them, blinked as they saw the fair skinned mountain run towards them waving his arms and screaming "Attack! Attack!" in their language.   
  
The new slave's arrival amongst them and been the topic of much discussion in the Medjai's ranks. To say that none of them trusted this strangely coloured man with the eyes of the blue Nile was to put it mildly. His sheer size and strength put them on edge, and the shaggy appearance of him hadn't helped. He looked part man part animal.   
  
He was cleaned up now and far more presentable, but while their master, the Prince might seem to trust him so readily, they were far from convinced that he wasn't going to try and escape and take one or two of them down as he did so.   
  
This, however, wasn't quite what they had expected.   
  
A quick broken neck or brief flurry of swords before he ran or was cut down was one thing, but right now it looked as if he was running unarmed, to attack the entire encampment. And so they blinked. Blinked and looked at each other and started to laugh.  
  
Then they heard his words more clearly as he got closer.   
  
"Riders! Attack! Riders!" they looked beyond him at the distant embankment where he had been sitting, and saw the dust rising up in the air. One reached for his horn, even as Keeahn passed him at full pelt, and blasted a warning into the air.   
  
Keeahn ran, he could hear the approaching thunder of the horses behind him. The blast of the horn was a signal that moved the camp still another 100 yards beyond him into a frenzy of sudden activity. But it also signalled to the approaching riders that they had at last been noticed. A battle cry went up behind him, and a few moments later the riders poured over the area he had before been so peacefully sitting on.   
  
Another few moments later he heard a whoosh behind him that sped past him, and an arrow embedded itself in the ground ahead of him. Another blast of the horn rang out, from near his ear, and he realised that the 2 Medjai were just behind him.   
  
The one without the horn called out to him. "Dodge!"  
  
He looked back at them, and realised that they were running from right to left and back again, he saw the hail of arrows in the air, and started to zig and zag madly.   
  
Up ahead of them, at the first blast of the horn, men spilled out of their tents everywhere and stared at the oncoming runners before racing to find their weapons. He could see the Prince and the others come out of the central tent and could hear the commanding voice of Rameses shouting orders.   
  
There was a grunt to his right and a thud, he looked around again and saw the Medjai who had called out to him go to ground, his right leg stuck with a white fletched arrow. He turned even as the second Medjai ran on, furiously blowing the horn with what breath he had left. Moving back, all too aware of the oncoming riders, he reached down and pulled up the man, who would have been considered robust by Egyptian standards and flipped him up over his shoulder, to the man's considerable surprise, turned and ran on again.   
  
Just up ahead of them was a set of hurdles against which the shields of the army contingent escorting the prince had set their shields. With a grunt of effort, man and all, he hurdled it, and ducked down behind the shields, as another hail of arrows came in. Thankfully this hail was followed by a volley from beyond him as Rameses and his lieutenants had set up a wall of archers.   
  
In the fall of riders and horses that followed, Keeahn picked the injured Medjai up again and ran for one of the tents. Propping him up against a chest inside, he pulled the man's sword to the Egyptian's alarm, before flipping it over and handing it to him.   
  
"Stay." He said panting hard. "Your leg is bad. Better place to fight from in here, if you need to."   
  
The man, one hand clamped to his injured leg, took the sword with his free hand and looked at his own weapon as if as if it was some strange foreign object, and then looked at Keeahn, doing some rapid recalculations of the man. He nodded.   
  
"My thanks." He said.   
  
Keeahn nodded and ran to the exit, looking around to take everything in. The stream of riders were almost upon the camp, and he could see some of the archers abandoning their bows, reaching for their swords and making for the stacks of shields. A last few arrows came in from the riders side, and a man fell in front of Keeahn an arrow through his neck, his blood spilling like wine onto the sand. He twitched rapidly and then died.   
  
Keeahn made a dash for the man's weapon, a long spear, scooped it up and ran for the stacks of shields. Unfortunately they were all gone by the time he got there, and by the time he looked around so were the soldiers.  
  
Unfamiliar with organised warfare of this sort, he was out of the loop as the soldiers snatched their shields turned, shields at their backs and ran back to take up formation. Lining up in 3 rows, they turned again to face the oncoming riders, their long spears poking out past their shields. The first row knelt the second came up behind them, also protruding their spears and forming a fearsome wall. The 3rd row knelt behind their shields ready to fill any breaches.   
  
Behind them again, along the sides of the camp, more archers had taken up position, ready to pick off the riders that got through, and beyond that stood the Medjai, swords and shields at the ready.   
  
By the time he had taken all that in, the riders were right on top of him. He dived behind the legs of the thick wooden hurdles, and trusted that horses here, behaved as they did at home, and would jump not plough through the obstacle.   
  
As the horses leapt some of the riders took a swipe at him, but even with their long curved swords they couldn't reach him laying flat on the ground. They streamed past, over and around him like a tidal wave. When he was sure they had passed he jumped up. He estimated about 150 of them, but that wasn't what was foremost on his mind.   
  
Their robes. They were black and white. Their fletched white arrows and their long straight and then curved swords. It was them.   
  
With a roar of hatred, he let fly with the long heavy brass spear, and it flew straight and true and ran through from back to chest, the last rider past him. The rider slid off the horse like a straw doll, and Keeahn, ran and picked up the long sword that fell with him, even as the riders hit the soldiers wall.  
  
The clash and collision of metal, bone and flesh, and the roars and screams of men and horses filled the air.   
  
Keeahn ran, unheeding of the danger in the resulting scrum of man, horse, shield, sword and spear, hacking at anything in black and white that moved, screaming in his native language and in pure fury. The grief for his father, his kinsmen, and for his own predicament pouring out.   
  
Even in his growing fury, from the corner of his eye he saw a horse and rider, who had wheeled away from the crash and was now coming at him side on. He swung around in an arc even as the rider raised his sword, and before the downward chop came he removed the riders stirrup leg whole, from the thigh down with the sword continuing through and burying itself in the horse.   
  
Horse and rider screamed as one and toppled. Blood spurted, showering the Celt in ichor. Keeahn didn't even try to retrieve the sword, instead leapt over the dying horse onto the outstretched arm of the now one legged man, his other good leg trapped beneath the horse. The arm broke in two places, removing whatever tenuous hold the rider still had on his sword. Reaching down he picked up the sword and drove it into the man's heart like it was butter.   
  
The soldiers were now involved in a pitched battle with the majority of the riders, but some had avoided the wall and had gone around the sides heading for the Medjai, and beyond that, the royal party. A good distance behind them, panting and afraid, stood the non-military. Helpless and doomed if those before them fell.   
  
Behind the line of Medjai, Rameses, Akehton and Tuthmose stood in their chariots, shielded by their drivers and firing arrows along with the archers now lined up on either side of the encampment, trying to pick off the approaching riders.   
  
Maybe 40 had gotten through, but they were skilled riders and ducked low in their seats and only 10 had been cut down by their arrows. The line of Medjai was thin, maybe 20 in all. They were outnumbered and the rider's horses were a big advantage.   
  
No one had expected this.   
  
They were in the very heartland of Egypt, mere days away from Thebes and one of the biggest armies of men in the world. The military attachment they had had for returning home, was of course well trained, and fairly numerous. 200 men including the Medjai, but it was in essence merely for show. Something for the people to admire as they passed triumphantly through their towns and cities.   
  
Being attacked here was the last thing that had ever crossed their minds. And yet, here they were fighting for their lives.   
  
"Great Prince," the Medjai captain, one eye on the still advancing riders, approached Rameses "You and your honoured brethren should protect yourselves and withdraw."  
  
Rameses barked an unpleasant laugh. "Flee, you mean?" he shook his head never moving his gaze from the enemy. "How fit a Pharaoh would I be, if I ran every time there was danger. We stand!"   
  
With no more time to dissuade his charge, the captain bowed and returned to stand square on to his men and looked back at his Prince, waiting for orders. Rameses notched and let fly two more arrows, before pulling his sword, his brother and cousin followed suit.   
  
"Down!" cried the captain, and the Medjai fell to one knee, their spear arms up the spears resting on their shoulders.   
  
Rameses held and held, and then, finally as they could almost smell the horses panting breath he pointed his sword at the captain.   
  
"Throw!" the man yelled, and 20 spears launched themselves not at the riders but at their horses.   
  
The Medjai, were the best of the best of the warriors of Egypt and it's subject lands. Trained for years and loyal to the last drop of their blood they were the finest fighters in the known world, and it showed.  
  
All 20 of the spears hit their marks and there was a terrible squealing as the riders mounts collapsed beneath them, bringing down half of the others with them. At the end there were just 4 riders mounted. As one the Medjai rose, and with a roar of defiance and a plea to the Gods to protect their King they drew their swords and charged at the men still struggling to extricate themselves from their fallen steeds.  
  
The Medjai fell upon them, but in doing so, left space for the still mounted riders who had wheeled around and steadied their animals to see the gap that lead to the royal party. The archers further back could not risk firing, for the danger of hitting either the Medjai or worse, the royal party. The 4 horsemen charged the 3 men in the chariots.  
  
As one Rameses, Akehton and Tuthmose picked up their shields and ordered their drivers to advance, and the chariots plunged forward. Ramese's cartouche was clear on his chariot and the riders recognised it. Despite Akehton cleverly ordering his driver to drive across Rameses line, shielding him, 2 of the riders headed for the heir to the throne. The other 2 made to keep the lesser princes busy.   
  
Rameses easily blocked the blow of the first rider to arrive with his shield and struck out with his spear rather than his sword to keep the rider at arms length, but succeeded only in nicking the horse. The driver prepared to take the chariot around in an arc, hoping that the blade on the wheel of the chariot might cut the lead riders mount from under him, but was stunned to find a knife hilt sticking out of his chest. His last sight in this world as he slid to the feet of his prince in the chariot was the second rider his throwing arm outstretched, beginning to reach for his sword.   
  
The horses, no longer under control bolted, and with one hand holding a spear, the other a shield and briefly distracted by the death of his driver, the sudden jerk threw Rameses from his chariot, to the hard packed sand beneath.   
  
"Rameses!" Akehton cried out from 20 yards away, in the thick of battle but seeing his brother fall.   
  
Rameses, looked up at the sky stunned, every muscle jarred by the impact. A shadow obscured the azure sky and he realised it was the front hooves and body of the horse rearing up and bearing down on him. Pain coursing through him he rolled sideways between the front and back legs of the horse and raised his spear, the horse came down heavily on the spear, and with a grunt died on it's feet. He rolled again and avoided the falling body, spring to his feet.   
  
Unfortunately for him, the rider of the horse proved just as agile, and leapt from his dead horse to land on the ground on the far side, brandishing his sword with a flourish. Even more unfortunately for Rameses he had no sword or weapon of any kind to flourish.   
  
The battle cry of the second rider filled his ears and he only just ducked in time to avoid his royal head being removed from its royal neck. The second rider reined in his horse with a slide and Rameses was trapped.   
  
A second battle cry sounded but this one wasn't coherent and sounded more like the cry of an animal in pain. Rameses trying to watch both attackers at once, hoping to find an opening, saw only a blur, and then the blood drenched Keeahn was upon them.   
  
With a leap the Celt bounded up and straddled the back of the still mounted riders horse, brought the great arc of the attackers sword he carried over the man's head and, as if he held the most delicate of knives, slit his throat. The body was flung rather than pushed from the horse, and Keeahn cleanly grabbed the free reins, and dragged the horses head around to the direction he wished to go while spurring it on with his heels. The horse flew forward, and before the first attacker, had time to take in the sudden shift from near certain triumph to approaching death, Keeahn rode him down.   
  
Rameses watched in silent amazement, before emitting an echoing cry of battle, his smile flashing at the man he had taken from the labour gang. But though Keeahn looked directly at him, his eyes were filled with something that the Prince had never seen before in battle. He watched as Keeahn spurred his horse back towards the other chariots.   
  
Akehton, having just managed to dispatch his opponent with a well timed thrust to the belly, had just enough time to gape at Keeahn's rescue of Rameses, before turning his attention to his young cousin who was still involved in a game of cat and mouse with his attacker. Akehton reached for his bow again and ordered his driver to get him a better aim, when Keeahn sped by on the horse and on reaching Tuthmose reached out and slashed the attacking rider from his horse = with an almost casual flick of his sword and in a gentle arc turned the horse back towards the main battle.   
  
The animal cry came again from the depths of his soul, and Akehton could only gape at the visage.   
  
"Ra protect us." He muttered.   
  
Rameses, watched Keeahn despatch Moses's attacker and then sprinted for Akehton's chariot. He leaped on board.   
  
"Follow him!" he pointed at Keeahn, and ordered his brothers driver. The driver whipped the horses on. They were joined momentarily by Moses.   
  
"What do you think of my acquisition now?" Rameses called out to him, exhilarated by his near brush with death.   
  
"I'm glad he's on our side!" Tuthmose yelled back.   
  
"Gods," Akehton said "Look at him!" They all turned their attention back to the fair skinned warrior slave who had leapt from his horse into the heart of the remaining battle, where Medjai and ordinary soldiers fought the remaining dismounted riders.   
  
In the course of battles or in training all 3 of them had seen great fighters and clever fighters and those who made it look easy, but they had never seen anything like this. There was no style to it, no coherent pattern of attack, and certainly nothing defensive about his approach. He hacked and slashed like a man possessed of a demon, eyes ablaze, every sinew straining, heedless of the small wounds and nicks he was receiving. Sheer strength ripped shields from hands and plunged weapons through armour. His speed and aggressiveness made it almost impossible to get close enough to do any serious damage, weapons, including those he used himself, were bent and split in two by blows.   
  
Rameses took Akehton's bow from his hands and took it upon himself to make sure that no enemy sword would find a lucky way into this man's body. Watching all the movement around Keeahn, he picked off any enemies that approached him without the man's knowledge.   
  
Finally, with one final plunge of the sword into a fallen enemy, it was all over. The sword stood straight up erect from the body of his enemy and Keeahn, chest heaving, eyes ablaze whirled around in search of more. But there were none. Only a large circle of soldiers, Medjai and charioteers watching him in awe. His eyes closed slowly, his head dropped to his chest, and gasping for air, he dropped slowly to his knees, bending double.   
  
Then came the roar.  
  
"M'Athair!" was the cry and as he raised his head back as far as it would go, arms outstretched, it soared up into the night sky to the stars louder and longer than any sound from a human had a right to. A roar of pain and grief, of revenge and farewell, it echoed on to where his father and kinsmen, treacherously killed, now dwelled.   
  
And then, the berserker rage departed. 


	7. The Rich Samaritan

Chapter Seven  
The Rich Samaritan   
  
Egypt, 1926  
  
This wasn't good, O'Connell thought. They were still at least a full day away from the river, and Evelyn was sleeping way too much and when awake starting to slur her words and ramble. The journey to Hamunaptra with Imhotep, novel as it must have been travelling in a cloud of sand, had, dressed only in her night dress, exposed her to the elements, and in tandem with this long dry journey home again it was beginning to take it's toll on her. He'd covered her up from the sun as best he could, but feared she might already be suffering from heat stroke and was certainly dehydrated.   
  
They'd not stopped since his too long sleep, and they could not afford to now. He'd kept his eyes open for any sign of vegetation, hoping he might see a cactii that could hold some water within it's green fleshy leaves. But they were out in the desert proper now, the rocky outcrops had gone, and a sea of sand dunes surrounded them, where there was no proper hold for plants.  
  
"Is she asleep again?" Jonathan said tiredly reining his camel back alongside his sister's and Rick's. Rick noticed he was keeping his injured arm clamped in tight by his side, it was obviously bothering him.   
  
He nodded. "Yeah. Maybe it's the best thing for her. But we need to find something to drink soon."   
  
"Absolutely!" Jonathan agreed wholeheartedly, "My throat's so dry I feel like I've gargled with half of this damnable desert, and you could sand wood with my lips!" his eyes grew wistful "God, I'd kill for a whiskey and soda right about now." he looked over at Rick, only to be met by an impatient look. "Or some water..." he amended quickly. "That would do too."   
  
"Y'know, Jonathan." Rick's tone matched his look, his patience running low thanks to his own heavy thirst, the pains and aches he had, and his worry about Evelyn. "I like you and all, but sometimes you can be a real...."  
  
"I say." Jonathan interrupted him before he got fully into his tirade, pointing with his whip hand. "What's that?"   
  
Despite the feeling that Jonathan was just doing this to get out of a bawling out, Rick looked in the direction he was pointing, and was mildly surprised to see that there was actually something out there. Something that was moving.   
  
It was hard to tell in the heat haze that rose in the distance.   
  
"It looks like a camel with a rider on it." Jonathan observed, peering like Rick.   
  
"It could be just a mirage." Rick muttered warily, having seen things in the desert before that turned out not to be there.   
  
"Only one way to find out." Jonathan said quietly, before suddenly rising up as high as he could on the back of his camel and waving his whip in the air. "Hello! HELLO!"   
  
"Jonathan! No!" Rick made a grab for him and missed. Jonathan gave him a confused look. "Goddamn Jonathan!" Rick swore "Had it occurred to you, that there might be more than one of whatever might be out there, and that they might not be friendly?"   
  
"Ah..." Jonathan considered ruefully "Good point." He looked out at the shape again. There was no way, if it was real and human, that they could've failed to hear him. Sound carried a long way in this wilderness. "Still you're armed and there are two of us..."  
  
"Wha's happenin'?" Evelyn's slurred, muffled voice came out from beneath the blanket where she was shrouded in Rick's arms.   
  
"Nothing, sweetheart." Rick said automatically, before wondering where the hell that endearment had suddenly sprung from. He'd never called anyone that in his life before. He composed himself. "It's okay." He soothed. "We just think there's someone out here with us."  
  
From her cradle of blankets she looked up at him and smiled, but her eyes were glassy and the smile was detached and vague.  
  
"Tha's nice." She sighed, her voice cracking slightly. "More the merrier...." She mumbled, before her eyes closed again. He frowned his concern growing, she sounded drunk, but there was nothing amusing about her talking that way without the benefit of a bottle of 12 year old Glenlivet.   
  
"Rick." Jonathan hissed in a suddenly worried voice. "It's moving towards us!"   
  
"Oh." Rick shot back sarcastically. "I wonder why?"   
  
He dropped his whip into Evelyn's lap and with his free hand reached up to pull the one revolver he could easily reach out of his shoulder holster. Only it wasn't there. He looked quickly down, and then remembered.   
  
Jonathan had taken them from him in the treasure chamber to help fight off Imhotep's mummy pals. They were currently lying in there, probably with Beni, having been chucked at a couple of mummy's heads by Jonathan when he'd run out of ammo. In fact his entire gunny sack was down there.   
  
"Oh boy..." he said softly, but not softly enough. Jonathan all senses now on full alert, heard him.  
  
"What? What?! What's the matter?" he looked from the shape to Rick, to the shape and back again. Rick smiled the kind of smile that Jonathan recognised as the one you tend to see on someone's face when they have something really nasty they have to tell you, Things like a 3,000 year old Mummy has your sister, or I'm afraid that leg will have to come off, Mr Carnahan or I'm sorry, sir, we're all out of liquor.   
  
"Remember what you said about us being armed?" Rick informed him in a round about way.   
  
There was silence from the English man for a moment and then. "Oh. Well...isn't that just RUDDY WONDERFUL!" he stormed. "You might have told me that before I yelled out!"   
  
Rick was genuinely astonished, and so it took him all of 3 seconds before he roared back his response. "WHAT?! You're trying to make out that this is my fault?! As I recall it wasn't me that threw my guns at those mummies like some big....sissy, Jonathan!"   
  
Jonathan's eyes narrowed "Oh really...well I didn't hear you complain at the time! And might I remind you just who saved your life when you were down and out at the hands of those soldier mummy types?!"   
  
"Oh yes...right...thank you sooo much!" Rick smiled "And might I remind you, who it was who woke them up in the first place?!?"   
  
"Well, I like that!" Jonathan   
  
"Well I'm glad you did, cause buddy, I sure as hell didn't!"   
  
"Now listen here, O'Connell!" Jonathan leaned towards him angrily, then stopped. "Oh hell..."  
  
Rick, still furious, followed Jonathan's eyes back towards the shape that was finally emerging from the heat haze into proper focus.   
  
There was in fact more than one camel, there were three in fact. But thankfully there was only one rider.   
  
Jonathan heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank God for that..."   
  
Rick nodded, calming down a little. "Yeah, well, don't get too relaxed. Hand me that knife from the saddle bags and then make sure that those bags are well covered . There may be two of us, but he's probably armed." He said getting in a last shot at the elder Carnahan.   
  
Unsheathing the knife from it's scabbard, he hid the knife between his belt and Evelyn's blanket and tucked the scabbard in with Evelyn. Before he turned his camel towards the approaching rider.   
  
From his dress the approaching rider was a Bedouin, and the two camels that trailed his own mount were laden down with covered packs. He uncovered his lower face as he approached them, revealing himself to be a man of middle years, unremarkable of feature and mild of expression.   
  
As they reached one another, both parties drew their camels to a halt. There was silence for a moment, as the men regarded each other.   
  
"Salaam." Rick said finally giving the traditional heart, mouth, head greeting.   
  
"Yes...um...salaam." Jonathan repeated nervously, hand waving in a vague impersonation of his friend's movements. There was another moment of silence, as the lone rider formed his final impressions.  
  
" Al salaam a'alaykum" The rider responded in a guttural voice and repeated the greeting process, before smiling a less formal greeting. "I am Akim Abdulaziz, a merchant. You are far from home, gentlemen." He said in perfect English with hardly a trace of accent, causing Rick to look at Jonathan and Jonathan to smile happily.   
  
"Name's Jonathan Carnahan, and indeed we are, my good fellow," the young Englishman said relieved. "And are we glad to see you might I add."   
  
"Indeed?" The Bedouin inclined his head in thanks. "Are you in need of assistance? Are you lost?"   
  
"We're not lost." Rick replied "But we could use some help." He looked down at Evelyn "Our companion is not well, and we have no water, we would be grateful for any you could spare."  
  
"I would imagine you would be." The Bedouin smiled grimly "It is not wise to travel without it."   
  
"Let's just say we didn't have much choice in the matter." Rick's smile matched the Bedouins.   
  
"I see." Their new acquaintance nodded taking this in, and digesting it. Finally he came to a decision. "You are fortunate then that I came along when I did. I would be glad to help you..."   
  
"Oh good!" Jonathan interjected happily.  
  
"...providing," The Bedouin continued without breaking pace "that you remove the knife you have hidden in the folds of that blanket." He looked blithely at Rick, who in turn looked surprised at the man's perceptiveness. "You will find," the newcomer said by way of an almost apologetic explanation "that those of us who travel the desert wastes alone for much of the time, often develop a keen eye and an almost sixth sense about potential hiding places, a necessary survival technique I'm afraid."   
  
Rick looked at Jonathan again, and then extracted the knife, trying his best not to show how richly decorated the hilt was as he slid it into the top of his boot on the side facing away from the Bedouin.  
  
"That is a beautiful blade." Abdulaziz said automatically. Rick swore internally. "I am pleased to see that you will be able to pay for what you require of me."   
  
Again, Rick and Jonathan exchanged looks. It would seem that their new acquaintance was no Good Samaritan. Again, the man smiled almost apologetically.  
  
"Your forgiveness sirs, but I am a merchant first and foremost, and by your dress and blades, you are no paupers, so charity is perhaps not appropriate in this situation?" he asked without expecting an answer.   
  
The haggling began, and though Akim quite obviously wanted the knife, Rick did not want to let him have it, and spent a great deal of time convincing the man that it had been left to him by his grandfather and was a family heirloom.   
  
Fortunately Jonathan had money on him, and for the unbelievably exorbitant, according to Jonathan, fee of £50.00, they bought a goodly supply of water, 4 days worth of food, a couple of pots, some cooking fuel, some more blankets, a robe for Evelyn and a small tent from the merchant.   
  
Rick frowned a little during the purchases. Though he was intensely grateful for the mans' appearance it seemed a little strange to him that the man had exactly the supplies they needed in his packs.   
  
Jonathan had dismounted and with the man was finalising the deal. Goods and the money were exchanged, Jonathan picked up two goat skins full of water, brought them over to Rick who was still seated with Evelyn on the camel and handed one up to him.  
  
Rick uncorked the goat skin quickly and as Jonathan began to take a long deep drink from the one he still held in a manner he normally reserved for whiskey, he looked down at his friend.  
  
"Go easy, Jonathan." He warned him from long experience. "It's not good to down water too fast if you've not had it for a while. Sip it or you could end up on your knees retching it all back up again." As he spoke O'Connell poured a little into his hand and placed the moisture at Evelyn's mouth.   
  
"Evelyn," he said softly "Evelyn, wake up." He tipped his had forward a little and some of the water trickled into her mouth, though most of it fell on her parched lips.   
  
She stirred a little and coughed a little as the tiny trickle of water made it's way to the back of her throat. Her eyes were groggy and dull when they opened. "Hey." He smiled fondly down at her "How're you doing?"   
  
She opened her mouth to reply, but he shook his head.  
  
"No, shh...I've got us some water. I want you to take some for me, but in real small sips okay?"   
  
She nodded imperceptibly, and slowly he began to dose her with water, pouring some on her face and hair and on the blanket to help cool her down. He dosed her slowly, until she gave a little smile of satisfaction at the feeling of a moist tongue and throat once more.   
  
"Okay," he said pushing a stray damp hair away from her face and pulling the blanket back around her. "That's enough for now, there'll be more in about an hour."   
  
"You are wise, sir." Abdulaziz said from where he had been observing them, Rick looked over at him, and the merchant indicated Evelyn with a nod of his head. "She is your wife?"   
  
"Wife?" At that word Rick felt half a dozen conflicting emotions flood through him, having the unfortunate side effect of completely blanking his mind. In trying to find a response he looked down at Jonathan who simply raised an eyebrow at him in amusement. "Umm....no...no...she's, umm...that is she's....."  
  
"My sister." Jonathan finished for him, getting him out of a hole.   
  
"And yet you let him hold her and care for her?" Abdulaziz said incredulously. Jonathan coughed.   
  
"Yes, well you see he's an old family friend..." a wicked grin crossed his face "...actually more a sort of retainer if you will, serves the family well. Good chap. If a bit mouthy." He looked knowingly at the merchant "American you know." Rick shot him a glare that would turn mud to stone.  
  
"I think you jest with me, Mr Carnahan." The merchant half smiled. "For I know if a servant of mine were to hold my sister thusly, I would be forced to introduce him to my sword."   
  
"Really? I'll keep that in mind," Jonathan said looking back at Rick ignoring the glare. "might be something to that."   
  
Adulaziz reached into one of the saddle bags that hung on the lead camel, and pulled out another goat skin. He walked with it over to Jonathan and Rick.   
  
"Here." He said handing it to Jonathan. "My gift to you."   
  
"Thank you." Jonathan said in surprise, and then opened it and took a whiff. His recoil was instant and he coughed several times before managing a choked "What is it?"  
  
"It is a goat milk yoghurt," the merchant replied "It is much favoured among my people and light to the stomach, I think you will find it is best to give your sister that rather than solid foods until she is better still."   
  
"Oh, right." Jonathan said, quickly corking the foul smelling stuff "Thank you. Jolly decent of you."   
  
"My pleasure," Abdulaziz walked back and picking up the rein of his lead camel. "It is a small token for a welcome interruption on a tedious journey, a most enjoyable haggle and a good deal struck."   
  
"For you maybe." Jonathan muttered, forgetting about the merchants sharp eyes and ears.   
  
"Is there another kind of good deal for a man?" he chuckled as he climbed aboard his lead camel, and raised her up. "Well, If there is nothing else you need of me, I shall be on my way gentlemen. I must reach market with my goods or else the deal I have done with you will be the only one I do this week."   
  
"What goods do you carry, out of interest?" O'Connell asked him suddenly.   
  
The merchants smile was enigmatic. "Pots, pans, food both exotic and domestic, clothes, tents and blankets. Things people of the desert often need."   
  
"I see." Rick nodded. "You wouldn't happen to know a man named Ardeth Bay by any chance would you?"   
  
The smile remained as it was. "I cannot say I do, sir. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go. I hope your sister will be well, and I wish you god speed on your journey. Salaam gentlemen."  
  
"Salaam." The two men chorused, as Abdulaziz spurred his mount on, and moved on back in the direction from which he had come.   
  
Jonathan looked up at Rick. "You think Ardeth sent him after us?"   
  
"Be a helluva coincidence if he didn't" Rick watched him go. "Still, it was strange he didn't let us know it, and he made us pay."   
  
"Maybe," Jonathan posited "It's a Medjai thing. You know what Ardeth is like, you heard him back there," he did an impersonation "You have gained the respect of my people...and then off he toddles on his merry way, and just ups and leaves us there! Maybe this was his tangible way of saying thank you, without actually looking like he was saying thank you."   
  
Rick absorbed this, it actually made some kind of warped logic. He looked down at Jonathan. "A couple of nights back just after we left Hamunaptra, I thought I saw someone watching us, I guess it could've been the Medjai."   
  
"Bound to have been." Jonathan nodded. "After all who else would be out here watching us."   
  
Rick turned his eyes back to the departing man. "Right." 


	8. Aftermath

Chapter Eight  
Aftermath  
  
Egypt, 1068 B.C  
  
Rameses flung the black and white robe of the Syrian raider ridden down by Keeahn, down on the large table in the middle of the huge tent he occupied, and that was currently filled with the most exalted of those upon this trip.  
  
"Syrians!" he swore. "They dare attack us in our own land?"  
  
"It was a raiding party, not a war party." Tuthmose observed quietly. "We've counted the bodies, there are 160 of them." He and Akehton exchanged looks.   
  
"But there have been no reports of any raids," said the smaller man, drumming his fingers on the table "which means...."  
  
"Which means," Rameses finished for his brother "That they came here with the express purpose of ambushing us."  
  
"Killing you, you mean." Akehton corrected. "Which also means that somehow they knew where we were."   
  
"But if that was the case," Tuthmose frowned. "Why not bring a bigger force? If they knew where they were they must have known what our retinue numbers were. Why such a small force, why not make sure the job was done by overwhelming us?" Something glittering in the robe caught his eye and he reached forward idly.   
  
"A bigger force might have been more easily spotted, my lord." The Medjai captain pointed out. "In a group like this they could have brought men across the border or the sea in small parties and gathered them out in the desert, watching and waiting for us to arrive, without anyone being alerted. A large force would have been far harder to move without being spotted."   
  
"True." The tall hazel eyed young man accepted, but at the same time, couldn't shake the feeling that something felt off about the whole situation. However, all here were older and more experienced than he, and he kept his council. Withdrawing his hand from the robe he examined what he had found. A thick bronze oval medallion, with a silver cartouche on it's surface and plain lines of decoration around it's rim.  
  
"We should be thankful for that." Rameses said grimly sitting down, staring at the robe "We were lucky today. But I swear this, like Horus I will have my revenge for this murderous attack!" He gripped the robe then tossed it into one of the fires that lit the tent. He looked up at his men at arms. "What were our injuries like?"  
  
The commander of the guard snapped to attention. "50 dead, 70 wounded, 40 of them badly, great Prince." Rameses nodded and looked at the Medjai Captain.  
  
"And amongst the Medjai?"  
  
"All bar 5 live, my lord." The captain replied proudly.   
  
Rameses contemplated all this. "Very well." He decided. "With such a number of badly wounded we have only two choices. Either we trust that there will be no further attacks, and wait here till those who must travel to the underworld begin their journey, while the rest of us are well enough to travel on. Or a small number of us leave now and head non stop for Thebes, where aid can be sent for the injured. If we leave tonight, and ride on continuously, we could be there by daybreak the morning after next. "  
  
He looked around at the assembly of men, looking for their opinions.   
  
"I feel it would be wise for the Princes to leave." The Medjai captain said, as always fulfilling his mandate of protection. "We cannot trust that there will be no more attacks and the closer we get to Thebes the less likely anyone will follow us."   
  
Most of them nodded, seeing the wisdom in the words, Rameses included, but he was still troubled.   
  
"The men have fought valiantly though. It does not seem right to leave them here alone."   
  
Silence reigned for a moment.   
  
"I will remain with them." Tuthmose offered. All heads turned in his direction. "You are right, they should not be left leaderless after so brave a defence of our lives." He could see his more esteemed cousin was about to make an objection. "My cousin, you know it is the right choice, otherwise you would not have, in your wisdom, made the comment. You and Akehton, are of the royal blood, you should leave. I am but your cousin, I will remain here and do what I can for the men."   
  
One of the non military advisors, a man called Bestines, a greasy money counter, who was far richer than he should have any right to be and who sweated from nerves a deal more than was to Rameses taste, piped up.  
  
"He is right, great prince. It is the right choice."   
  
Rameses eyed him with distaste. "I will decide what the right choice is, accountant." The man squirmed back in his seat. A scan of similarly uncomfortable faces revealed to him that there were a good deal to many cowards in this room.  
  
He steepled his fingers and stared into space for a moment. Tuthmose was young, this trip had been his first on Pharaoh's business. Still, he was a skilled fighter and learned in the art of command, and after all bringing him had been all about giving him experience. "Commander," he called to his man at arms, the leader of the regular forces. "Gather those that are wounded but fit enough to travel at a reasonable pace and have them prepare to leave. We will take only 20 of your fit men, and the Medjai with us."   
  
The vaguest of murmurs of unhappiness at the small numbers allotted for protection amongst some of the civilians was silenced almost immediately by a sharp look from the crown prince.   
  
"Those are my orders." He decreed, and waved a hand. "You will leave myself, my royal brother and cousin to our discussions." Dismissing them. They left as always bowing, and walking backwards. When they were gone he looked at Tuthmose.  
  
"You are sure?"  
  
"Yes." Tuthmose said seating himself. "Apart from the men, I would like to stay here, and see if anything further can be gleaned about what happened." He hesitated then decided to speak his mind a little "I cannot but find it strange that such a clever and well informed group would not ensure that we could not survive...." He looked from one to the other of them "....maybe they never really intended to finish us off. "  
Akehton snorted. "You mean, that they would sacrifice themselves? Attack, knowing they would fail? To what end!?!?"  
  
"I know not." Tuthmose admitted, feeling a little sheepish, but he defended his corner. "Maybe it was a mistake and they were misinformed to our numbers...or maybe they were misinformed on purpose? "   
  
Rameses looked from brother to cousin. Tuthmose, was a quiet young man as much an intellectual as a warrior and probably prouder of the former. But had a tendency to be cynical about all interactions with non-Egyptians, often reading more into a foreigners actions and words then was there. It was an affliction of a young man, proud of his intellect but thrown into a diplomatic world which he knew to be underhand and devious and trying too hard to impress upon people, his older cousins especially, that he was no young naive. It was quite possible again, that he was reading more into this than met the eye. "I have often found you sharper than a serpents tooth, cousin. But like my brother I would again have to ask, to what end?"   
  
Tuthmose had no real answer. "I....do not know. It's just... the feeling that there was more to this than...." He trailed off, frustrated and rather embarrassed.   
  
"Well, as you are so alerted to this, maybe it is right and proper that you should be the one to remain with the men. Such keenness of mind will serve them well." Rameses said kindly.   
  
"Or have them striking out at their own shadows." Akehton quipped.  
  
The hazel eyed young man ignored his older cousin's good natured jibe and stood stiffly, all business. "I will go and check upon the men, and help with arrangements for your departure. Goodnight cousins." He bade them, they responded with their own good nights as he walked outside.   
  
The commander of the guard stood not too far away giving his orders. Tuthmose approached him.   
  
"How many of these did you find on the raiders?" he asked, holding up his find, of the medallion. On it, in ornate and delicate workmanship was an image, fashioned of silver, of a greyhound like dog, with a long pointed face, pricked ears and a tail that stood straight up. The God Set.   
  
In the torchlight that lit the outside of the royal tent, the man at arms peered at what he was being shown. He shook his head.   
  
"None my lord. As far as I am aware, that was the only one."   
  
Tuthmose nodded and walked away, a little deflated. The hairs on the back of his well shorn neck, such as they were, had stood up when he saw the medallion's image, but he didn't know why. The worship of Set had been re-established by Rameses grandfather, and many people wore such medallions as a form of protection. But something about it had made him jumpy. Something about this entire situation made him jumpy.   
  
He looked out into the desert night warily. Slipping the long oval medallion into his robe pocket, he turned and headed for the wounded.   
"My lords, may I enter?" came a voice from outside the tent.   
  
"Enter my friend." Rameses called, recognising Sekhnet. "And welcome."  
  
The Priest of Isis walked in, his eyes tired, his white robe stained with blood.   
  
"How fair the wounded?" Rameses said concerned, indicating for the priest to sit.   
  
"3 more have died, lord," Sekhnet said lowering himself into a chair. "I believe 4 more will die during the night, the others, the physicians and I are hopeful for, providing we can get them proper attention."  
  
"A small party of us will leave tonight. We should be in Thebes in a day and a half, help should be here in 3 days." Akehton informed him. Sekhnet nodded.   
  
"Then, if the Gods are with us, we should lose maybe only 10 in total." He sat back with a sigh, just as Rameses sat forward.   
  
"And, how is the rampager?" he asked softly. Sekhnet's eyes raised to his own.   
  
"Apart from a dozen small cuts and one slight gash on his shoulder, he is in perfect health my lord prince."   
  
Rameses sat back. "Incredible. And he is quiet and sedate again?" he asked curiously.   
  
"Completely, my lord prince." Sekhnet shook his head "It's hard to believe that it is the same man."   
  
"Have you ever heard of anyone fighting like that?" Akehton asked of the learned man.  
  
Sekhnet thought. "I did hear tell once of a similar frenzy overtaking warriors in the heat of battle, but that was bestowed on them by the God, Horus as they sought to revenge and defend their king from the far greater numbers of the advancing warriors of Akkadia."  
  
"Hah!" Rameses said triumphantly. "See?!?" he looked at his brother. "He is beyond perfect! Honourable and blessed by the Gods!"   
  
"You did not ask whether they hacked each other to death after finishing the Akkadians." Akehton muttered.  
  
Rameses ignored him. "He alerted the entire camp to the attack! The man saved my life on the field of battle today! Does that not prove his trustworthiness?"  
  
"He also slaughtered dozens of men in the most...." Akehton began.  
  
"You question his slaughter of our enemies?!" Rameses raised an eyebrow "Enough. You argue for the sake of it. Let us settle this." He turned to Sekhnet. "What do you think my friend. I have never known you wrong on the characterisation of a man. Do you feel that I can entrust our sisters safekeeping to one such as he, foreign though he may be?"  
  
Sekhnet was quiet for a moment.   
  
"My lords," he said finally. "I have spent much time with this man. I have taught him and learned from him at the same time as examining him beyond mere facts. I have tried to see his Ka, and have prayed on the matter to the Great Goddess." They all bowed their heads.  
  
"And your conclusion?" Akehton said impatiently.  
  
"He has much to learn yet about our ways but....but I believe, despite the short time, that there is no better man in whose hands you could place the safety of the flower of Egypt." The priest proclaimed with a smile. "He has sworn to you, If you order him to, he will protect her to the death. His honour, as he says, is his life." 


	9. New Perspectives

Chapter Nine  
New Perspectives  
  
Fort Brydon, 1926  
  
The encounter with Akim Abdulaziz had afforded them extra time in their journey homewards and they were able to relax their punishing schedule. Rick had insisted they journey on for another hour or so, putting some distance between where they had met the merchant and where they set up camp, just in case.  
  
After putting up the tent and settling Evelyn in it, the two men had attended to her and the hourly doses of water, the tent and some modicum of comfort had an amazing effect on her. She fell asleep again, but this time her sleep was peaceful. With their primary patient taken care of, Rick had helped Jonathan wash out his wound and they bound it up using some of Evelyn's new robe which had proven a good 2 sizes too big for her.   
  
Following that Rick had taken off his shirt and let Jonathan have a look at the section of his ribs that were really troubling him now. Once Jonathan had stopped commenting humorously on the fact that Rick's entire torso was not only black and blue, but purple, yellow, green and some other colours that probably didn't have any names, he set down to properly examine the American.   
  
They both concluded, while Jonathan was doing some poking and prodding that Rick felt, and very vocally indicated, was wholly unnecessary, that his ribs were bruised and not broken. By dinner time that night, Evelyn woke and felt well enough to try some of the yoghurt, which, she assured an aghast Jonathan tasted far better than it smelled.   
  
With the extra blankets, a full belly and a fire, they'd all slept reasonably soundly that night, and awoke to the dawn, feeling better than they had done in a long time. Still, despite her assertion that she felt much better, Rick insisted on Evelyn wearing the new, albeit now torn robe and draped the blanket over her head, keeping her completely out of the sun. No longer pushing themselves, they reached had reached the Nile by afternoon the day after that.   
  
The main topic for discussion, beyond Imhotep and their merchant saviour, had been what they were going to do with the contents of the saddle bags. It had been quickly agreed that they would split the contents three ways. Evelyn's assertion that really, to be fair, most of it should go to the Museum, didn't cut too much ice with her brother, who had actually started to laugh.   
  
Knowing she wasn't going to win that argument, she had agreed to the division, with two provisos. She herself fully intended to donate a good chunk of what she chose and she requested that both of them contribute at least one item from their cut to the Museum.   
  
The rest of her collection she would sell to reputable collectors who would not melt it down for bullion or sell on the jewels to jewellers, and she insisted that they do the same.   
  
She had assured them that though they would not make as much as if they simply auctioned it off, they would both still earn a small fortune from selling to proper collectors, and they would ensure the pieces remained intact for posterity.   
  
It was agreed, and also agreed that once they reached Cairo, the bags would remain in Evelyn's possession, so as to avoid any unwarranted 'borrowing' not to mention fights among the two men.   
  
Upon reaching the river, and the trading post, they had sold an already agreed upon small piece to finance the final part of their trip home. While Jonathan got his shoulder wound attended to by an extremely ancient, but excellent local healer, Rick took the opportunity to begin rearming himself, buying a couple of Smith and Wesson's 38's and a rifle from a trader whose goods had probably hot footed it over from the latest massacre at a Legion fort in Algeria.   
  
Not overly impressed with the oversized, striped, and now torn, robe they had selected for her from the merchant an embarrassed Evelyn had returned to the women who had sold her the rather fetching black dress she had purchased from them the first time she'd lost all her clothes. There she politely enquired whether they might have another dress for her, fully convinced that they must think she was either some kind of 'lady of the night' or completely deranged the way she kept showing up in her night gowns.   
  
Clean, fully dressed, and feeling altogether much better in herself, she found out from one of the women that a boat was due to stop that evening and allow it's customers off to buy goods in the trading post. An expensive luxury tourist boat which was on it's way back up to Cairo, having shown it's well to do passengers the beauties of Luxor and Karnak. Telling the others, they decided to delay setting off and see whether there might be room aboard.   
  
Slower than the ferry boat, it would take 5 days to get to Giza port, and with good music, good food and to Jonathan's great joy, good wine, cruising up the Nile it seemed to Rick to be the perfect opportunity to get better acquainted with Evelyn. In her new dress, hair pulled loosely back but down about her shoulders, and with her native done make up once again highlighting her incredible eyes, Rick had dragged himself from her side and spent the first hour or so after they got on board in his cabin, washing up and working out his plan of campaign.   
  
Dinner and wine, they wouldn't be alone, but it meant he could pick up on the right things to do from the other guests on board. He remembered some stuff from his sojourn in Paris, but not all that much, as mostly the group he had been with had encouraged him to do all the 'wrong' things. Back then he hadn't given a damn, taking delight in thumbing his nose at convention...now though, he really wished he could remember more. Still, he was a quick study, and some mimicking would get him by.   
  
There was a small band apparently, so a little dancing maybe, providing it was nothing more than a slow waltz. Anything faster than that and it would pretty much ensure he would trip over his own feet, or worse, stamp all over hers. He could out run hoards of voracious scarabs, skip across skeletal corpses to get over a moat, run down sheer stone staircases 4 and 5 steps at a time...just don't ask him to foxtrot.   
  
That all going well, a nice stroll out on deck, into the moonlight. After that...well... he hoped that inspiration, verbal and otherwise would strike.   
  
Unfortunately instead it was the captain, their clothes and his anatomy that took a hand.   
  
With only the clothes on their backs, all of them were, in present company, a little underdressed to say the very least. Black tie was de rigeur at the dinner table aboard this boat. And while Evelyn's almost duplicate copy of her black dress, served her well enough, the two men, were in really bad shape, clothes wise.   
  
Their clothes torn and stained with blood, the men "elected" at the Captain's "request" to eat in the cabin on the first night, so "as not to distress the ladies on board", until such time as suitable arrangements could be made for alternate clothing, at their next stop the following day.   
  
To Rick's disappointment, the Captain had then invited Evelyn, as the daughter of the famed Howard Carnahan, and the only one suitably dressed, to dine with him at his table that evening. So Rick and Jonathan had been forced to eat dinner alone together in Rick's cabin. All through dinner, while Rick was trying to make the best of it and pumping Jonathan for information on Evy's likes and dislikes he could see Jonathan's pre-occupation with the saddle bags that were currently in the room with them while Evelyn was elsewhere.   
  
Sure enough as soon as they had finished dessert, Jonathan made the suggestion that they should start looking at dividing up the treasure, and which point he made to get the bags. Rick, seeing that coming, and intent on making sure that Evelyn was there to mediate before anything like that would come to pass, made a dart to beat him to it. Only to find himself doubled over in agony.   
  
Jonathan, startled out of his avarice, had run to fetch Evelyn, and as was invariably the case, it turned out one of her dinner companions at the captain's table was a doctor. Dr Phillips, had, after helping him onto his bed and ushering the worried Evelyn out of the room, undressed him, taken one look at the morass of cuts and bruises on his body, and grilled him thoroughly while treating him.   
  
As he didn't want to be diagnosed as clinically insane as well as physically incapacitated, he'd lied of course, and told him he'd run into trouble with some locals who'd roughed him up a bit, though he was honest about the long nights in the saddle and sleeping out in the desert.   
  
The doctor told him, that his back muscles had spasmed on him, having been so tense and tight for the past few days, all it had taken was one quick sudden movement, and his back, currently a hundred different shades of yellow and purple had decided enough was enough.   
  
After his bruised ribs were tightly wrapped, which also helped his back, he was confined to bed for the duration, the doctor insisting he need plenty of R&R. This of course put paid to his plans for a romantic cruise home with Evelyn. As she was neither his wife nor his fiancee, and this was a "respectable" boat, as the Captain kept reminding him, there was no chance she was allowed to even spend more than 5 minutes alone with him, as one of the waiters was assigned to him for his needs, and was constantly on hand, and while she did come to visit him often, she was inevitably chaperoned by Jonathan, the doctor or one of the women on the boat, who were all just so helpful he could have throttled them.   
  
So basically, instead of being able to seize the moment, and sweep Evelyn off her feet under the moonlight on the Nile, they had hardly seen each other alone. Their conversation mostly reduced to polite pleasantries, and brief hand holding whenever someone other than Jonathan was playing chaperone, and as bar privileges were included in the ticket price, Jonathan didn't play chaperone all that much.   
  
The only good thing that had happened was not being hauled in for interrogation on their return, regarding recent events in the city, and discovering that the police had decided to write off the mysterious death's of a well known Egyptologist, 3 visiting Americans, and the curator of the Museum of Antiquities as an outcome of the city riots. The papers reported the riots themselves as due to a nervous population who had suffered a fire storm, an eclipse and an outbreak of infected boils in rapid succession and had broken under the strain, attacking the Museum and the adventuring party as some kind of retaliation for 'angering the ancients' through raiding their tombs and bringing all this upon them. The Cairo police, not exactly the most thorough of forces, had happily gone along with this assessment. Expediency tending to be their watchword.  
  
For instance, the 'trial' that had resulted in his death sentence, had consisted of a pissed off captain, suffering from a hangover and sick of seeing his face in front of him, deciding to be rid of him once and for all. Frankly, for a man like that, it was easier to blame a mob than try and figure out how someone could be completely desiccated in the middle of your city. To top it, the locals in the mob, who had been killed by the group trying to escape them, conveniently became the culprits. All tied up in a nice neat package, thank you and good day. And when being spared a grilling over multiple deaths and riots was the best thing that happened to you, you knew life could do with some perking up.   
  
Between her desert illness and his physical collapse and confinement a great deal of the romantic momentum they had built up on leaving Hamunaptra had dissipated. And so, now, here he was, 2 days after their return, standing alone in his hotel room, back in Fort Brydon, fiddling nervously with his tie in front of the mirror in his room.   
  
It all meant he had to kick start it again, and this time the truly scary way. The civilised way.  
  
Back in the big city now, he had to play it by the rules. Their trip home on the boat had proven that. No useful advantages like fighting off marauding Medjai, or making light of destroying a dozen or so mummies to impress the girl this time O'Connell, he thought as he tried to extract his finger from the Windsor knot he was trying to tie in his tie, without much success.   
  
He had money now, or would have. Lot's of it too, but he couldn't use that to impress her, because, now so did she.   
  
Still, the money solved one problem, in that he could show her a good time, and wine and dine her, but it also meant that now he had no excuse for not doing all the things he wasn't very good at doing. Starting with politely asking her out on a date. And then, alone with her, holding a civilised conversation, not making flip comments that she found offensive, being able to remember which fork went with which knife, and was it red or white wine with steak? He could do it. He knew he could. He was just really nervous about it. Really, really nervous.   
  
He stared at himself in the mirror and briefly wondered was it too late to make a run for it?   
  
He didn't even have time to respond to the brief business like knock on the door, when Evelyn walked briskly into the room, a notebook in her hand in which she was thoroughly absorbed, and a long cloth covered bundle tucked under her arm. He spun around, trying desperately to get his tie done up.   
  
"Ah...aheh...Evelyn!" he managed weakly a rather goofy smile on his face, as she strode past him and sat herself on his bed, oblivious to his struggles to make himself look respectable in front of her.  
  
"It's extraordinary." She said, still staring at the note book, and shaking her head. "Absolutely extraordinary."   
  
"Umm...what...ahhk..." He choked as he pulled the tie knot up too quickly and nearly garrotted himself. He yanked at it and tried to tidy it, as she finally looked at him.   
  
"What is?!" he said casually, eyes wide.   
  
"What I've...." She stopped and raised an eyebrow. "....well, that Windsor knot, for one thing." She shook her head, and tut-tutted, placed the book and bundle on his bed and marched over to him. "Honestly," she commented in an almost maternal tone "you men and ties. Look at the state of you." She fussed, as she struggled to undo the damage he had done to it.  
  
At first he felt somewhat embarrassed, but the feeling transmuted itself into amusement at her motherly fussing, and then to enjoyment at her unabashed closeness to him. He stood there in silence, a broad smile on his face as she continued to fuss with his tie, until she was happy with it. Who the hell wanted to run? He could definitely get used to this.   
  
Finally she stood back, with a triumphant little smile of her own.   
  
"There!" she nodded approvingly "Much better. You look very smart wearing a tie." Then something suddenly occurred to her, and she looked up at him curiously, and asked. "Why are you wearing a tie?"   
  
"Excuse me?" he responded.  
  
"Oh...no..." she said quickly, realising he might have taken it the wrong way. "I didn't mean to intimate...that is I never meant to suggest in anyway that you weren't the sort of man to wear a tie...or even own a tie...or...." She flapped "It's just that...well...I know I haven't known you all that long...and now that I think about it, of course you probably wear them all the time...it's just that I haven't seen you in one before, and certainly not since we've been back and....oooh..." she exhaled finally, annoyed at her own embarrassment, before looking at him again in that self same curious way and with the exact same tone as before. "....why are you wearing a tie?"   
  
In a strange way her awkwardness emboldened him.   
  
"Actually, I was thinking about going to ask you out to dinner." He said levelly.   
  
"Really?!" she sounded astonished.   
  
Slightly irritated by the surprise and astonishment he seemed to be eliciting from her for very ordinary things, he put his hands on his sides and leaned forward a little.   
  
"Yeah! Really!" he assured her strongly.   
  
"Oh...." She said softly, memories of the desert flooded back to her, accompanying the sudden flotilla of somewhat nervous butterflies in her stomach. Her wide eyed look of surprise, melted into a shy rather flattered look, "I think that might be very nice."   
  
"You do?" he stated rather than asked.  
  
She nodded, wondering whether it was ladylike for her to put her arms around him without him making the first move.  
  
"You're sure now?" he teased. "Because, I wouldn't want to startle you or anything...."   
  
"Rick...." She said in a sweetly plaintive tone of voice, that was meant to substitute for an apology for her reaction.   
  
"Thank you." He smiled, and she frowned a little not understanding. He moved a little closer, and brushed his fingers over her cheek.   
  
"For what?" she asked, a small shiver at that touch adding to her butterflies agitated state.  
  
"That's the first time you've said my name...." He looked down into her eyes, and ladylike or not, she placed her arms around his waist and smiled up at him. "...without the benefit of a bender that is." He teased..   
  
His boyish grin settled her butterflies a little, and she stuck her chin out a little defensively, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. "I like the name O'Connell."   
  
"Do you?" he chuckled, enjoying this give and take. "Well that could prove very useful."   
  
It took a moment before both of them took in the full implication of that half joking whole in earnest statement.   
  
She flushed a little, as did he ,before he grew more serious, his fingers playing with the dark curls of her hair, which she had continued to wear down since their return.  
  
With a woman like Evelyn, of course, marriage was something you had to think about, he thought to himself. He just hadn't realised he'd be thinking about it so soon. But there it was. Marriage. The word glowed like one of those new fangled neon advertising signs in his head. And rather than sending him screaming back into the night, he could feel it pulling him, enticing him to take a look. Sample the wares.   
  
Sure he had his fears, and his misgivings about how this was going to work, but when she was here like this, close to him, happy in his company, none of them seemed to be remotely important. When he was here with her like this, he felt a happiness and contentment that he hadn't felt since his childhood. But there was more than that, there was a strange sense of completeness.   
  
If you thought about it, in a certain way, all their differences, their different backgrounds, talents, outlooks, when you put them together they made up something more than the sum of their parts. Two halves of a whole, two sides of a coin. He just had to hope that she could look at it in that certain way.   
  
"Evelyn?" He said softly, seriously. Trying to find a way to broach a subject which he had once swore he would never even think about. "I know that we've only....."  
  
"Evy, if you don't hurry up I'll have to....oh good grief!!" Jonathan walked in through the open door, groaned and came to a stop. "What is it with you two? Can't I leave you alone in the same room for more than a moment without you falling into one another's arms? You're like a couple of geriatric camels, always leaning against other for support!" he marched past them and ensconced himself in the wicker armchair by Rick's bed, before pointing a finger at Rick. "I sincerely hope your intentions towards my baby sister are honourable, O'Connell!"  
  
"Jonathan!" Evelyn hissed at her brother, highly embarrassed. Rick just smiled.  
  
"Completely." He said quietly, in the same sincere voice from the heart that apparently was beginning to come naturally around her. Her eyes moved back to him, her look speculative and then touched. He thought about kissing her, but Jonathan would probably storm out in disgust, and useful as that would have been, he did dimly recall as he continued to look into Evy's eyes, that she came in here for a reason. A reason he hadn't heard yet.   
  
Jonathan, the intense silence between them almost as irritating as their kissing, brought up the subject again.   
  
"Have you even told him about what you've found, Evy?"   
  
"What is it?" O'Connell looked over at Jonathan and then back at the woman in his arms.   
  
"Well," she began, as she skipped away from him to fetch her notebook and the long bundle from the bed, her face taking on that expression of blissfully happy absorption that always accompanied any discussion of her work "Jonathan came rapping on my door," she looked at her brother, "again! Wanting to know when we were going to get cracking on dividing our little find. He's been at me repeatedly you know and..."   
  
"Yes, yes, Evy." Jonathan interrupted her "I think we all know how eager I am, can we get on please?"  
  
"...Jonathan, eager is one thing, but holding me off while you rummage through the saddle bags is quite another!"   
  
Rick turned a glare on him, and Jonathan quickly sat up from his slouch in the chair, blew out some air and shrugged his shoulders in silent 'she's overreacting, old chap' mode, before correcting his sister. "I was just checking that everything was still there."  
  
"I beg your pardon?!" Evelyn's hands went to her hips, outraged. "Just what are you implying, Jonathan Carnahan?" Rick rolled his eyes, here we go. "I would never...!"  
  
"Did I say you would?!" her brother cut her off.   
  
"You certainly implied it!"  
  
"I did no such thing, I merely said I was checking..."  
  
"Hey, HEY!!" Rick snapped. "Much as I enjoy these little family moments, could someone tell me why we're all here?"   
  
"Evy's found something." Jonathan sighed rather impatiently, and settled back into the chair. "So be a good fellow and hear her out, so we can get started on sharing out the booty and on starting our new lives as the filthy rich, will you?"  
  
Rick turned an expectant look back to Evy. Who, after giving her brother a daggers glare, flipped open her notebook again.  
  
"Right, well...during Jonathan's 'checking'" and another glare was thrown in the direction of the male Carnahan. "and my attempts to stop him, some of the items were spilled out on the floor. Including what looked like 3 sceptres."   
  
"Only two of them weren't." Jonathan hurried the story along looking bored, only to sit forward again animatedly "Dibs on the one that was though! Caught my eye when we were out in the desert. Smashing piece...make a great talking point with the ladies, heaps better than a gold cane. Shame the star on the top is broken."   
  
Rick stared at him, wondering if it was possible that he might have been adopted, before looking back at Evelyn.  
  
"And the other two?" he prompted.   
  
She grinned excitedly. "I think they're papyri cases." She began to unwrap the bundle for him to see.  
  
"Papyri cases." he repeated, feeling a little let down.   
  
"Solid gold engraved papyri cases, from the reign of Rameses the second." Jonathan nodded wisely, which didn't really help, nearly everything they'd brought back with them was solid gold. "Oddest thing though," he said, chewing on a nail absently, "I was sure I had a mental check on everything in that bag when we were out in the desert...don't seem to remember those..." he sniffed. "Still, probably just over excitement...so many beautiful things...." He smiled serenely.   
  
Displaying the items proudly, Evelyn picked up on Rick's wholly unimpressed face, "Don't you see?" she said taking a step or two towards him. He looked at the admittedly beautifully worked items, and then back at her a little apologetic.  
  
"No," he shook his head "Not really."   
  
Silly, she thought to herself, why should he know?! She nodded, the smile returning to her face, and went into full teacher mode.  
  
"You see, papyri being paper of course, very rarely survives beyond a certain length of time, except in very favourable circumstances. Examples of scrolls from ancient Egypt are quite rare really, most, though not all, of what we know of the stories and legends comes from either later Greek or Roman Historians transcripts, like Plutarch, or from the stone inscriptions on monuments and tombs and pottery." He suppressed an affectionate smile as she got more and more animated. "What we do have, tends to have survived from the later dynasties through to the Ptolemies. There is very little from prior to that, and almost nothing more than scraps from the 19th Dynasty." She took a deep breath, and finished with a flourish, tapping her notebook. "Which, from the inscriptions on the outside of the cases, is almost certainly what we have here!"   
  
"Wow..." he nodded slowly, looking suitably impressed. All in all it was quite hard not to get carried away by her enthusiasm. Unless you were Jonathan of course. "So then you think this could be a big find, historically speaking."   
  
"Absolutely!" she agreed, hopping up onto his bed and looking down at the notebook, in which she'd been scribbling almost non stop since she got home. She'd already gathered more than enough material, along with some of the items she would donate to the museum, to "blast those Bembridge blighters out of the water", as Jonathan would say, with the destruction of the map to Hamunaptra in the river boat fire, this little find was the icing on the cake.   
  
"So..." Rick said slowly, moving as he was through a scholarly subject, which was bandit country for him. "What do you think is on it? Have you opened them?"  
  
"Heavens, no!" she looked up from her notes in abject horror. "I couldn't possibly. Not now at least."  
  
Rick frowned a little. "Right, and that's because..." he ventured slowly, thinking hard, "...it says do not open until Christmas?" he finished lamely.   
  
Jonathan snickered, she sighed and gave Rick the look she kept for when she thought he was being especially obtuse. In return he gave her his best scamp grin, the one he used to use on his teachers, and more recently on whatever woman he was seeing, when he knew he was in trouble after showing up late when he was supposed to be showing them a good time. It seemed to do the trick.   
  
"No." she said slowly, as if he were an fool but the corners of her mouth turned up as she spoke. "Because, the design of the cases appears to be such that whatever is in side is sealed in tight. And if we open it after all this time, whatever is in there once exposed to the air, could easily crumble to dust if we touched it."   
  
"That's assuming there's anything in there at all, old mum." Jonathan said brightly.   
  
Evelyn's face fell.   
  
"Yes, thank you for that Jonathan!" Her response was withering though it didn't phase him at all.   
  
"Just pointing out the options, Evy. Don't want you to be disappointed." He grinned, delighting in tormenting her. Despite the childishness involved, Rick had to fight to stop a smile spreading to his face.   
  
"Fine, thank you!" she stared at him, "Let's just 'assume', that there is something in there, shall we?" she dared her brother to speak again. His smile just became beatific. She waited until she was sure he wasn't going to interject again. "Good," she composed herself and continued, turning her attention back to Rick. "while I don't know for sure what is inside, the inscriptions do give me a good idea."  
  
"Okay." Rick said, sitting down on the dressing table stool, and waited.   
  
Evelyn looked from one man to the other, never happier than when she had an audience for her findings.   
  
"To begin with," she started to pace "from their design and style, I'm sure they're a pair, done by the same Master craftsman, and the cartouche, as Jonathan says is definitely the seal of Rameses the second."  
  
"The...." Rick drew on the little knowledge he had. "...son of Seti, the guy who had Hamunaptra built. The one that our friend Imhotep and his girlfriend..."  
  
"...killed. Yes." Evelyn confirmed.   
  
"So, then, this could be his bed time reading then?" Rick leaned back against the dresser. Evelyn smiled.  
  
"In a funny way that's precisely what it could be." She nodded. "You see, from the inscriptions, one appears to be the tale of Osiris and Isis, a great favourite in the story telling lore of Egypt."  
  
"A love story is it?" he grinned.   
  
"Very much so." She nodded.   
  
"So old Rameses was a romantic sort then."   
  
"You have no idea, old man." Jonathan chimed in. "The chap had 112 children by all accounts."  
  
"112!" O'Connell spluttered. "That's...that's..." he paused. "I'm not sure there is a word for that."   
  
"Try, show off, old man." Jonathan helped out. "Especially when you consider that the average life expectancy of a man back then was somewhere between 32 and 35. If you take that he was about let's say 14 to begin with into account...."  
  
Rick joined him in trying to do the math "....that's almost 5 and a half children a year!"   
  
Jonathan grinned. "Good eh? And then there's the number of women he would have had to..."   
  
Rick started to nod, a far away smile starting to form on his face.   
  
"Good maybe, but not accurate." Evelyn arms folded, interrupted quickly from where she stood before the two men got too deeply into thoughts of the Pharaoh's harem. They looked at her. "It wasn't only up till 35." She explained. "You see it was one of the oddities of Rameses reign that, it lasted as long as it was purported to have done."   
  
"How long was it supposed to have lasted?"   
  
"Almost 67 years. He was supposedly in his late 80's when he died."  
  
"Nice innings." Rick whistled, and spoke mock seriously to Jonathan. "They do say that having children can make you live longer."   
  
"That should've done it I expect." Jonathan nodded. "But a bit drastic don't you think? How on earth would you remember all their names, never mind birthday presents!"   
  
Evelyn coughed interrupting them again.. "I think you're both missing the point. If we were to transfer his age to the life expectancy of a man now, it would've meant that he lived to a modern equivalent of approximately 170 years of age."  
  
Rick's eyebrows shot up. "What did he find the fountain of youth or something?"  
  
She shook her head. "All kinds of myths abound about how he managed it. Magic elixirs, dark gods. But it's our belief..."  
  
"That's the royal Egyptologist's 'our' by the way..." Jonathan informed Rick, teasing his sister.   
  
"...it's our belief," she repeated. "That it had more to do with the fact that he was an intensely healthy man, very much into vigorous exercise." She sat down on the bed again. "Seti used to make him run 2 miles every morning before breakfast, you know."   
  
"I see." Rick sniffed, in his current recuperative state je got tired just thinking about that.."2 miles? Every morning? Are we sure that Rameses didn't frame Imhotep for his father's murder?" he winked. She sighed again, but failed to hide her smile. "So, one's a little light bed time reading to stir the romantic in him...which by all accounts didn't need much more stirring." Rick continued. "Then what's the other one?"   
  
Evelyn grew a little more reflective.   
  
"I'm not so sure about that one." She admitted. "I've not had much time to really go over it. The inscription seems to indicate that it's also a story containing Set."  
  
"Set?"  
  
"The god of chaos." Jonathan informed him. "Nasty chap. Murdered Osiris."   
  
"So maybe it's like the second volume of the first then. A sequel." Rick declared. "Where the lovers having got together, now face a tragic end?"  
  
"Maybe..." Evelyn said softly, while looking again at the notes she had made. "No," her tone turning more definitive "It must be something else. The first story would've contained the murder of Osiris, it's integral to the love story."  
  
"That he should be dead?" Rick queried. "Y'know, generally speaking that puts a serious crimp in a fella's style."   
  
"I'll explain later." Jonathan assured him. "Let's just say death is only..."  
  
"No. Let's not just say." Rick said quickly, all too willing to forget Imhotep's last rather ominous sounding words. "I know they say that love can transcend time but I think these ancient Egyptians took it just a little too literally."  
  
"That's not very romantic of you, O'Connell." Jonathan raised an eyebrow, and glanced at his sister, who was nose deep in her notes again.  
  
"Yeah, well, romance kind of loses it's gloss for me, when there are large numbers of excruciatingly painful deaths involved."   
  
"You know," Evelyn spoke softly again "I think I was wrong, I don't think this is a love story after all.". "The prominence of this cartouche..." she tapped her notes "I didn't think about it at first...but in fact, unless my translations are very badly off, I don't believe this first one is the traditional story about Osiris and Isis at all. Or rather it is, but from a different perspective." She looked up once more "I think both it and the second one are actually about Set.   
  
"A sort of set on Set, you might say." Jonathan laughed, and then stopped self consciously, when no one else shared his sense of humour.  
  
Ignoring her brother, she announced. "The second is a continuation of the first. But it's not a story of eternal love...it's one of hate." She shook her head slowly "Incredible, everlasting hate."  
  
There was silence. The two men looked at each other.   
  
"Why doesn't this surprise me?" Rick sighed.   
  
Jonathan coughed. "Erm....Good is it?"  
  
She shook her head slowly eyes firmly on her notes. "I wouldn't know...I've never heard of it before."   
  
Her brother shot her a look of mild disbelief. "You've never heard of it before?!"  
  
She waved away the comment. "Don't be silly, Jonathan. I don't know everything!" still, she had to admit he had a point. This was a rather unusual occurrence. A little spark of excitement went through her.   
  
It would appear, Evelyn old girl, she said to herself, that you might have found something entirely new, a new addition to the lore of ancient Egypt.   
  
"So does it have a name?" Rick's voice interrupted her thoughts. With the new slant on what she was looking at her fingers traced the drawings of the inscriptions she made in her notebook from the second case once more.   
  
"I think so." She murmured, "I believe it's called 'The Child of Set'." 


	10. Cry Of The Hunter

Chapter Ten  
Cry of the Hunter  
  
Thebes, 1068 B.C  
  
As if the Gods themselves had deemed it proper and right, the first rays of the sun fell on the great city of Thebes, City of the Living, Crown Jewel of Pharaoh Seti I, just as the right arm of Seti I, his son Rameses and his reduced entourage, crested the low hill that afforded them some of them their first glimpse of the city for a long time, and others their first glimpse ever.  
  
Keeahn sat with some of the wounded soldiers in the back of a cart, someway behind the golden chariots of Akehton and Rameses. He aided one man to sit up and look at the city of his birth, while he himself craned to see this place that seemed to inspire the very spirits of the men around them when they spoke of it.   
  
Just as the sun set rapidly here, so it rose rapidly, and the arms of Ra spread quickly over the earth in a warm embrace, spreading it's orange light over the huge temples, columns, obelisks and palaces of the sprawling city of Thebes. Keeahn felt his jaw drop.  
  
Giza had been a shock to the system, the size, the population, the great pyramidal tombs of kings had had him in a daze. But most of his time had been spent in the gutter or hole, digging or else chained in a dank holding cell. He had never seen it in it's entirety. But even if he had, he was sure it would not have compared to what he was looking at right now.  
  
Never in his life had he dreamed that such a city was possible. Tucked into a bend in the Nile, this city of Thebes, gleamed like gold in the early morning sun, it's huge buildings towering like mountains hundreds of feet in the air. Even from here he could see huge market places, courtyards and avenues that were spread across the city, and the hundreds of houses the were located within the massive city walls. Thousands upon thousands must have lived inside their safe protection.   
  
The man he helped to sit up, was the Medjai whose life he had saved, and who he had gotten to know better over the past day or so of journeying. In Sekhnet's absence he had helped him with his speech and told him more stories of this land. The man, Khunahk, grinned up at the young man's awe.   
  
"Big, hmm?" he smiled. Keeahn swallowed and looked down his eyes wide.  
  
"Big." He agreed.   
  
The journey into the city was no let down. After they were observed approaching and met by a hurriedly assembled guard of honour, who weren't expecting them for another day and a half, they were escorted through the city. He was swamped with sights, great marble floored piazzas, peppered with trees and reflecting pools. Massive obelisks elaborately carved with figures telling stories he could not read. Even bigger statues, of men and animal headed Gods towered over them, The buildings with their highly decorated facades were as impressive close up as they were from a distance, and the people prosperous and healthy.   
  
They passed through a huge set of gates out into one of the massive courtyards he had seen from a distance. The entire courtyard was covered in marble and gleamed white in the early morning. Across the courtyard a huge set of steps maybe 20 metres wide, also marble swept up into a huge colonnaded palace build from red sandstone and inlaid with carvings that were highlighted in gold.   
  
There was more wealth in this one courtyard than he had ever knew existed.   
  
Half way across the courtyard the entourage divided. The chariots both golden and otherwise continued on to the steps of the great palace entrance, while all but one of the carts and pack animals carrying the soldiers, servants, slaves and goods veered off, heading for what was an impressive looking black gateway that would have been the pride of many a building but here simply looked like a side entrance  
  
Rameses looked back over his shoulder, whispered something to his driver, and took the reins from him taking control of the chariot. The driver jumped out and raced over the courtyard towards the departing carts. He made his way up the chain till he reached the cart where Keeahn was seated.  
  
"The Prince wants you there!" he pointed at the only remaining cart still with the royal entourage. Keeahn nodded, watched as the driver returned to his post, and then looked down at the wounded Khunahk.   
  
"You will be well?" he asked solicitously.   
  
"Yes, my friend." The Medjai smiled and stretched forth an arm. Keeahn, unsure of the protocol did the same, and the Medjai grasped it. "Go bask in the glow of the Pharaoh's light." He said, "Serve him well."  
  
Keeahn nodded and smiled, though his smile was grim. A slave, even in a palace like this, though he live better than many a king at home, was still a slave. When he had served his time, he would leave this place and travel to the place he now knew as Syria to find the man who orchestrated his father's death and this slavery. "I will serve the Prince, as I have sworn." He qualified.   
  
"And in serving him, you serve the Pharaoh, for the Prince is our King's mighty right arm." Khunahk explained. And then nodded towards the entourage. "Go, it is best not to keep Princes waiting I have found, " he looked around in an almost conspiratorial manner, then whispered. "They are generally long on demands and short on patience." He grinned. "I will see you again soon I am sure."   
  
"I would be glad of it." Keeahn confessed, and clambered out of the cart. Khunahk looked over the side, as he departed.   
  
"And when I am well again, if your duties allow. Seek me out, I will be happy to teach you the ways of our weapons!" he called.  
  
"My thanks!" Keeahn smiled and waved, as he ran towards the palace steps that the entourage had almost reached. He skidded to a halt on the slippery marble surface right by the cart as the noble party reached their destination.   
  
Several of the soldiers who had accompanied them from the gate, ran up the steps and into the palace beyond the colonnade. The senior servants who had remained with the party immediately began to give orders to their subordinates as to what should be done with the contents of the lone goods wagon that had followed them. Urns of exotic spices, perfumes and wines. Alabaster jugs, Ivory cases, chests of the finest ebony and cedar, inlaid with gold and jewels, and the gods alone knew what lay within them. Bolts of silk and linen and other cloths. Enough treasure to purchase every tuath in his land, and still live like a king. He moved rapidly out of the way to avoid being run over by the swarm of activity.   
  
Rameses jumped out and with a laugh of delight grasped his brother Akehton who had a grin to match his own and cried. "Home!"   
  
Akehton looked longingly up at the building's entrance and took a step forward, only to be restrained by his brother, who gave him an understanding look.  
  
"Hold, for a moment or two more Akehton." He smiled. "You have waited this long to see her, a short while more won't kill you."  
  
For once the true face of Akehton shone past the many masks he liked to wear, his smile was bittersweet. "I am not so sure, my brother." He said softly. Rameses nodded and clasped his brother by his shoulder.  
  
Akehton, though he had covered it reasonably well, had pined all through the trip for his beloved wife. Married only a year, she was his only wife, and somehow Rameses doubted his brother would ever take another. Never had he seen love so change a man. Isephet, was a distant cousin, who had grown up with them in the palace, and Akehton had loved her ever since he'd first clapped eyes on her when she was 7 and he was 6.   
  
Smaller and less robust than his fellow children, Akehton had always been the buffoon of the pack, and as he had grown had long convinced himself, despite his siblings encouragement, that she could never care for him the way he cared for her. As an adult he had taken to drinking and carousing, and taking so little care for himself that finally he grew ill. Isephet had helped nurse him back to health, letting him know of her strong disapproval of his behaviour, and eventually, of her feelings for him.   
  
With Pharaoh's blessing they had married, and he had changed his ways, taking his responsibilities more seriously and drinking only in moderation, save for low points on this trip when he was missing her badly. Low points made worse by the fact that just before Pharaoh had decreed they should go on this trip, Isephet had told him she was pregnant with their first child. By their reckoning she would be due mere weeks after their return. It was no wonder Akehton wanted to dispense with formalities. But still, due to the severity of the situation, they must be observed.  
  
A moment or two after the princes had dismounted, a stream of soldiers poured out from the colonnaded building. On their heads they wore the head dress of the Medjai, but were richly dressed, wearing black and gold winged breastplates and carrying spears that looked as if they were made of solid gold, and honour party. One among them, an older man, who exuded competence and efficiency carried a sword at his side and wore an ornate head dress, he approached Rameses and Akehton, then fell to one knee, crossed his arms across his chest and bowed his head.   
  
It was done in such an elegant fluid movement, that Keeahn found himself unconsciously trying to mimic the elaborate tribute in his head, at least until he noticed one of his fellow slaves watching him bob vaguely up and down.   
  
"My lord prince, Rameses." The man spoke without looking up "My lord Akehton."   
  
"Zoser." Rameses acknowledged him congenially. The captain of the palace guard, and general of the armies of Egypt raised his head and awaited the signal to rise, which duly came.   
  
"Forgive us, my lord prince." He apologised. "We did not expect you for another...."  
  
"Day and a half. Yes." Rameses said. "But we were forced to return early. We were attacked."  
  
"Attacked?!" Zoser snapped in alarm. "Where?"  
  
"A day and half a nights straight ride from here. At the oasis of Puhrahm." Akheton informed him. "160 Syrian raiders."  
  
"Raiders!" Zoser shook his head in disbelief, the idea of the Prince of Egypt being attacked in his own land by raiders who had not been caught, was unheard of. "But how..." he began, only to be silence by Rameses raised hand.   
  
"Yes, good general, we have many questions too, but I think they would be best served if discussed in front of divine Pharaoh. I will request a war council with him, after he has received us and we are properly returned to our family." He assured him.   
  
"Yes, my lord prince. Great Pharaoh has not yet been alerted to your presence, he sleeps still." He looked around "Is this all that survived, my lord prince? My lord Tuthmose?" he said with urgency.   
  
"Awaits a detachment of your best men near the oasis while he guards the wounded. " Rameses ordered in an informal way. Zoser snapped to.   
  
"At once my lord prince. They will leave with food, supplies and transport within the hour."   
Without further word, Rameses moved rapidly into the collonaded building ahead of them, followed by his brother and their entourage. Walking through the chambers of the palace beyond, Rameses was quietly pleased with the reaction of those around him to the stranger in their midst. If the much travelled Zoser was surprised by Keeahn, then Nefertiri certainly would be. "General Zoser, this is my new servant, Keeahn. A bodyguard. Who has already proven his worth to us on the field of battle. He is of the tribes that inhabit the world far to the north of us. " his words were deliberately casual, almost blithe, as if men from half a world away were commonplace to him.   
  
"He is....striking, my lord prince." The general observed uneasily. "As always my lord prince, you bring the most exotic and worthwhile acquisitions to the house of your esteemed father. I have never seen one of his size and colouring before.  
  
""...his eyes..." a small wizened man in a plain red cloth robe, who had silently joined the small parade through the house, finally spoke, and then started, so surprised was he to find he has spoken aloud.   
  
"Yes, fascinating aren't they, Tetmi?" Akehton said addressing the chief eunuch and head of the household's slaves. "Blue as the sky." He looked at the Celt. "Do the women in your land have such eyes, Keeahn?" he asked.   
  
"Yes lord..." Keeahn answered staring at the huge vaulted ceilings and sheer marble walls they passed by, never having seen the likes of them before. "Blue. Green. Grey."  
  
Akehton shook his head. "Incredible. I wonder if it would be worth mounting an expedition to bring some back...."  
  
"Do you tire of your new wife already, brother?" Rameses teased.   
  
"Hah. You are in no position to lecture me on that brother!" Akehton retorted. Rameses virility was already legendary around Egypt. He had 2 wives and 6 concubines, and to celebrate his return, would no doubt add to that number.   
  
Rameses glanced back at the general. "He is to be a guard of the most precious thing in the world to me, and I would have him well schooled in all our ways of war. He is well schooled in his own, and you need only talk to your Medjai, lately returned with us to confirm his prowess. "   
  
"It shall be done at your convenience, my lord prince." The soldier replied.  
  
"Tetmi, you too shall aid me." Rameses commanded.  
  
Tetmi, bowed low as he walked, no mean feat. "Whatever you desire, great lord."  
  
"Sekhnet has been schooling him on our ways. And while I think he has a scholars interest in our new friend from the North, and will most likely continue to do so on his return with the others, it is not right that a man of his eminence spend so much time on the schooling of a servant. You shall teach him the ways of Pharaohs house, and life here. " he looked at Keaahn. "This is Tetmi, most loyal and trusted servant and chief eunuch of Pharaoh's house. The Pharaoh of the slaves if you will." He chuckled "Listen to him and he will teach you well." Keeahn looked at the tiny man, who walked beside him, and who in turn frowned at him, rapidly overcoming his temerity at the newcomers size and intent on establishing his dominance. "You will find him an apt pupil I think, Tetmi," Rameses spoke as if he knew what was going on behind him "though I would not attempt to beat him if I were you." His voice twinkled with unexpressed amusement.   
  
"My wife?" Akehton asked eagerly of the little man, now that Rameses was finished with him.   
  
"The other ladies are at their bath, lord," Tetmi replied "The lady Isephet remains in her chambers, sleeping." The corners of his mouth twitched, anticipating the next question. "Both she and the royal child she bears are well."   
  
They walked on through the massive palace, and Keeahn returned to his awe struck scrutiny of the building, every surface seemed to be of some precious stone, metal or wood. The interior columns were sandstone heavily carved and inlaid with gold, the ceilings far above black with silver motifs and figures. The floors pale brown marble, the chambers lined with statues of the gods and famous men made from pure gold. As they moved through the chambers he could see through open doorways rooms of different hues, with curtains and wall hangings of silks and satins and other costly cloths. Furniture that had wing motifs and was invariably inlaid with gold or some form of precious jewel. Everything seemed worth a king's ransom, and every room was more impressive than the next.   
  
Akehton could contain himself no longer, and as they came within sight of a great curved staircase that led to next floor of the palace. He slapped his brother on the back by way of farewell and bounded up the stairs 2 and 3 at a time, determined to have his sleeping bride awake in his arms.   
After divesting themselves of their escort, Rameses, in his vast chambers allowed his servants to attend upon him, before sitting down to a light breakfast in his bed chamber, and looked up at the quietly standing Keeahn.   
  
"Ah." He exclaimed. "I forgot." He indicated the table of food. "Eat, take your fill, and sit."   
  
The prince ate the dates and grapes he had chosen as an appetiser thoughtfully, while watching his servant fill a plate with food, amused to see him take several of the honey cakes which had obviously become his favourites. Somewhat ill at ease, Keeahn looked around and took a plain chair about 10 feet away from the prince, and tried to eat his food as invisibly as possible. The full knowledge of the wealth and power of the people he was now bonded to had only truly come home to him in the last hour or so, and he felt more out of place than ever. The fact that the prince's eyes were firmly fixed on him didn't really help.   
  
Rameses, poured himself some watered wine, specially prepared for breakfast in the royal household, and took a sip, before finally speaking again.   
  
"There are people here" he announced "who would be appalled that a Prince should respect a slave." Keeahn swallowed his food hard, taken by surprise at the address. Rameses levelled a serious look at him, leaving him in no doubt that he meant what he said. "But I respect you, and your way of honour. Your father taught you well."   
  
Putting his cup down, the prince stood up, and turned from him, walking towards the huge window and balcony that extended from his bedroom. "My father taught me well also. Taught me, that you should keep those you respect and trust close to you. It is a piece of advice I value. It has served me well. I don't trust easily, I am a prince after all, but there was something about you that had the ring of truth about you. So much so that I defied all my traditional practices and went with my instincts. And they were proved correct to me two days ago, when you saved my life and..." he hesitated. "...I would thank you for that."   
  
Turning around quickly, the prince looked at him, as had become the norm recently Keeahn immediately went to avert his eyes.   
  
"Face me." Rameses instructed quietly "Look upon me face to face, and speak freely, for a man who saves another's life surely has earned that much right. That is my gift to you, and so is this." He turned once more and walked towards a long ornate table by the side of the wall by the window, and opened a box, and pulled out a thin beaded collar from which hung a wrought metal cartouche. Walking towards Keeahn, Rameses handed it to him. "This is for you, in recognition of your great service to me already."   
  
Keeahn looked from it back to the man who had given it to him, unsure as to what this meant.   
  
"I told you when I first freed you from your death sentence that I could not set your blood price. You have always been in my safekeeping only, for you truly belong to another. And for that reason, I cannot set you free." Though he did not voice it, the still slave recognised the true regret in Rameses tone, and though perhaps it shouldn't have, he found it eased his disappointment a little to know that this man was working as best he could within the boundaries he was forced to walk and the ones he set himself. Tradition, duty and obligation.   
  
"You may be still a slave, " he explained "But I have tried to temper it as best I can, by giving you the necklet." He pointed to it "If you wear that, people will know that you are held in my great esteem. With it, you are my emissary and my right arm."   
  
Keeahn looked at it again, and, then measured his words.   
  
"I thank you, my prince. It is a great honour for so short a time." The man before him though was no fool and could hear the unasked question in his voice.  
  
"But....?" He encouraged, drawing out the man. "Remember I have granted you free speech in my presence."   
  
Keeahn nodded "How can I be your right arm, if I belong to another?" he asked bluntly. Rameses's smile finally appeared. He really did like this man.   
  
"It is not so much that I am chopping off my right arm," he said poetically "As I am placing it protectively around my most precious treasure." Keeahn didn't look any the wiser, and Rameses ended his cryptic speech and explained to him in plain language his future role as the guardian of the next Queen of Egypt.   
  
When he was finished Keeahn blinked, and wondering if his grasp of the language had let him down. His confusion showed on his face.  
  
There was a long pause before he spoke. "Forgive me, my prince, but.....the princess is your sister...."  
He struggled not with words but with a concept.   
  
Rameses understood. "I see...no one explained to you, did they?" Keeahn shook his head. Rameses returned to his seat by the table, sat, and picked up his wine cup once more.   
  
"You know that Pharaoh is a living god, yes? Well the blood line of a god cannot be polluted with that of a lesser mortal if it an be helped. As Pharaoh it is our tradition to marry as closely within the bloodline as we can and produce our heirs that are of the true divine line. My father had no sister, and so he married my mother, his uncles daughter. She bore me, and some years later to my fathers great delight she bore Nefertiri. As my full sister, she is of the line, and is destined to be Queen of Egypt and reign at my side."   
  
"Our children will be strong in the bloodline, and great rulers of Egypt." He determined happily "I have known that for a long time. Nefertiri, is the heart of my heart, I have loved her since we were children and will love her always. She is Egypt incarnate and she gives me strength, just as the Nile gives the parched earth rejuvenating life."  
  
Keeahn watched Rameses as he spoke, it was the most adamant he had ever seen him. But it was a strange and somewhat unsettling concept. If it was true that the Pharaoh's were living god's then what he said made some kind of sense. Still, he could never see himself settling down with any of his sisters. They were all tougher than he was.   
  
In the end though it didn't matter, he would serve her on her brother's behalf and earn his freedom just the same, fulfilling his honour bond and leave them to their strange unsettling ways. He answered the prince with one of the many statements Sekhnet had taught him. "It is a great honour you bestow on me, I will do as you ask, even though it cost me my life."   
  
Rameses raised an eyebrow. "Hopefully for my sisters sake and your own, it will not cost you your life, my honourable servant and friend," the last word caught Keeahn by surprise, and it showed. "Be assured this change will not cost you your chance of freedom." He told him firmly "I will explain to my sister your ways. She is open to such things, and if she deems your service worthy of your blood price she will free you as I would. If she does not and I deem you have done enough, and am Pharaoh. I will free you, and more. You have my word.."  
  
The Prince lightly popped a date into his mouth and grinned. "We should be getting ready, Keeahn. I must meet my father and King, you must prepare to meet your new mistress."   
Dawn had also broken over the oasis of Puhrahm, and in the early morning sunshine Tuthmose walked some way away from the camp trying to get away from the stench of death that had surrounded them for the past 2 days. The priests and physicians who had remained to tend the wounded had taken to burning precious incense in the tents of the company so that all might be able to sleep.   
  
The men had buried the Syrian dead, in shallow graves without ceremony, after he had checked them all for further hints as to what might have been behind all this. But their own dead had provided them with a problem. Custom demanded that their bodies be returned to their families for embalming, or at least that the proper rituals might be observed so that they might be able to guard their souls in the afterlife. But the desert sun was no friend to a corpse and the smell of their fallen comrades drifted on the wind, even covered and protected as they were. Already, in the new day, the vultures were gathering to begin their endless circle above the carrion they desired.   
  
The young prince clambered to the top of a small dune and sat there, staring out at the light and shadow that was the red desert at it's most beautiful. Fishing into the pocket of his robe, he pulled out the thick bronze medallion of Set he'd dropped into it almost 2 full days previously. The thorough searches of the enemies broken bodies had revealed nothing more. Staring at the silver on bronze image of Set, he shook his head.  
  
He'd been so sure there was more to this than meets the eye, but had been wrong apparently. Nothing existed to indicate that this raid was anything more than an audacious attempt at murdering three members of the royal family. Maybe he'd been too long away from home, his imagination was beginning to get the better of him.   
  
A sharp cry attracted his attention and he raised his head towards the sky, expecting to see yet another vulture but instead saw the dark outline of a falcon circling above him standing out against the blue sky.   
  
Relieved to see something in the sky other than the symbol of death that was the vulture, he watched the falcon as it swooped and soared, his fingers idly tracing the raised image of Set on the medallion.  
  
Then he heard the click.   
  
The medallion moved in his hand. Looking down in surprise he saw that it had sprung in half like a split peach. No, not in half, in thirds. Picking it out of the palm of his hand he brought it closer to his face to examine it.   
  
What he had thought to be mere lines of decoration around the rim of the medallion, were in fact lines of separation, but the workmanship had been so expert that you never would have known unless you had been told. So well did the leaves of the medallion and the hinge that held them together merge that it had truly looked like it was one whole piece. Tentatively he opened these new leaves of the medallion wider.   
  
On each one, there was writing. 4 pages of it in all. A book. Tiny but legible to a man with good eyesight and the ability to read. Tuthmose had both.   
  
A thrill of excitement and trepidation went through him, even as the falcon above him sang out another cry. He knew there was more to this than had first been apparent and he knew without question that this would be the proof he needed to make believers of his doubting older cousins. He looked to the skies and smiled. The falcon was no accident. Horus was with him. He started to read.  
  
By the time he had reached the 4th page his blood had run cold.   
  
He was in the wrong place. The danger lay not out here, not from the Syrians, but in Thebes. In the very heart of the Thebes, Pharaoh's palace.   
  
Tuthmose ran his finger over the surface of the medallion again, seeking the switch that had inadvertently revealed to him the danger that was unfolding in the bosom of the greatest empire in the world. A danger that was already setting in motion events that could rock that world to it's foundations. Finding the switch in the left ear of the image of the dog god, Tuthmose closed the medallion, confident that he could open it again when needs be, on his return to Thebes. A journey he would have to begin now, without his men. From on high the falcon screeched a piercing cry. The cry of the hunter.  
  
Planting his feet and placing his free hand on the warm sand he went to push himself off the ground, and suddenly that sand started to froth and roil beneath his body.   
  
Frantically, he pushed himself to his feet, but the violent boiling of the soft sand sank him knee deep into it.  
Even as he struggled to free himself, he watched as the waves of the sand pulsed and flowed, their rippling effect becoming more and more evident, the red lines becoming darker and darker, changing.   
  
Frightened to his very core, he screamed for help to the distant camp, his call echoing through the wastes. By the time it reached the ears of the first man to hear it, Tuthmose knew what awaited him.  
  
Managing to wrench one leg free he unbalanced himself and pitched forward onto one knee, hands heading in the metamorphic sand. As they landed, the medallion fell from his fingers and tumbled down the face of the dune to the ground below. Where his hands fell, he felt not sand beneath his touch, but scales. All around him the sand heaved once more, and he realised now that it did so because it was alive. It had become alive.   
  
Alive with serpents.   
  
His terrified screams rang out even as the soldiers ran unseeing, towards the sound of his first shout for help. Swords drawn, they sprinted the distance to the dunes from where the shouts were emanating and clambered to the top. Looking down the first three of them recoiled, as they looked into the widened petrified eyes of the badly bitten and bleeding young prince, His mouth gaped silently, and he stared at them pleadingly for only a moment, before his eyes darkened and he pitched forward, dead, into the nest of desert snakes that surrounded him.   
  
While soldiers and priests gathered and began hacking at the writhing mass trying to retrieve him from the den of snakes into which he had obviously inadvertently fallen, unseen below the medallion lay half buried in the ground, and far above the falcon wheeled and flew off low through the desert sky, it's cry adding to the desolation below. 


End file.
